


The Legend of Fire and Ice: Heir of Fire

by ScholaroftheArchive



Series: The Legend of Fire and Ice [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dragons, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Heartache, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Multiple, R plus L equals J, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Targaryen Lore, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholaroftheArchive/pseuds/ScholaroftheArchive
Summary: Bound by oath and love, Arthur Dayne took Jon from the arms of Lyanna before Ned Stark arrived at the Tower of Joy, and raised him as an exiled Targaryen Prince in the East with Daenerys and Viserys; thus, changing the fate of the world forever. For the dragons and direwolves will come again with fire and ice to reclaim their stolen kingdom.Chapter Four PreviewPetyr tugged lightly on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. The cold air around them seemed to only grow cooler as his green eyes studied her face. “My dear, beautiful Sansa, you must know that the most dangerous ideas are the ones we come up with all on our own. Once they take hold of us,” he paused, smiling up at her, “they never quite let go.”





	1. Daenerys

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. I'm just playing in his sandbox. Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Dany …” he said her name with such tenderness, such reverence, that she may have been a princess to him. “it changes nothing, you know that, right?” his grey eyes bore into hers, filling her with warmth. “i’m still your Jae.”_
> 
> _“my Jae.” she repeated slowly, then smiled. his words pleased her more than she would admit. she squeezed his hand back. “does that make me your Dany?”_

_Dany hesitated in front of the red door. on most nights, she would not have even given a second thought about entering the room but tonight was not like most nights. Dany was uncertain of what to expect on the other side of the door. would he turn her away, preferring solitude over company as he was known to when he was upset? would he be sullen and cold? or would he be angry? she needed to know, so she threw open the door and stepped inside._

_the room was dark and silent. too silent. once, when she had woken earlier than him and heard his quiet snores, she had teased him at breakfast that he snored in his sleep. he had, of course, denied her claim even as the tips of his ears turned red. she had found it oddly endearing, and had giggled and tugged playfully on one of his curls. there were no snores now only silence. it unnerved her, and sent a shiver down her spine, in spite of the lingering heat in the room._

_timidly she approached the bed. “Jae?”_

_no answer._

_Dany took a step closer, resting her shaking hands against the edge of the bed. “Jae, are you awake?”_

_“uhmmm … Dany?” the figure stirred slightly. “what is it? what’s wrong?”_

_Dany bit her lip, staring down at the silk sheets. when he said her name again, she found the courage to ask the question that had been burning in her mind since that afternoon. “are you unhappy?”_

_“unhappy?" Jae sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he peered up at her underneath his hair. she had to stop herself from brushing the unruly strands away from his eyes. “what would i have to be unhappy about?”_

_Dany suddenly felt too warm. “this afternoon … what ser arthur and ser gerold said … i …” she began meekly but could not bring herself to finished. she glanced out the window instead._

_but Jae understood her better than anyone in the world. he took her small hands into his own. their hands were so different, she had once thought. her hands were small and slender with nary a blemish on them. the hands of a princess, ser gerold had once said, though she had never really known what that meant. she was not a princess. she’d never been one. not truly. his hands were large and calloused from hours and hours in the sparring yard, yet there was a softness to them that only she knew he possessed. she felt that softness now when he gave her hands a comforting squeeze._

_“Dany …” he said her name with such tenderness, such reverence, that she may have been a princess to him. “it changes nothing, you know that, right?” his grey eyes bore into hers, filling her with warmth. “i’m still your Jae.”_

_“my Jae.” she repeated slowly, then smiled. his words pleased her more than she would admit. she squeezed his hand back. “does that make me your Dany?”_

_even in the darkness of the room, Dany saw the tips of his ears turn red and she laughed as Jae scratched the back of his head. the gesture brought her attention back to his hair. his dark curls, so unlike her own silver-blonde hair, was thick and untamed, curling around his ears in waves that she knew were softer than the silk on his bed._

_during the day, in the presence of his kingsguard and her brother, Jae looked and acted every inch a king. intelligent and handsome. kind and gentle. a sweetness intermingled with a sharp wit that made her laugh and love him, yet he possessed a fierceness, a strong sense of justice, even at the age of three-and-ten that made her love him all the more. ser arthur had once told her that Jae had the same iron tones of her brother. she had never known her brother, and for that, she was very sorry, but she had also heard from ser arthur that Rhaegar had been beautiful. she had replied on that occasion that she thought Jae was beautiful, and ser arthur had laughed in such a wonderful manner that Dany had joined him just for the sake of it._

_but she was not the only one to take note of Jae’s beauty._

_she had noticed how the girls in the marketplace followed him with their eyes, the way the servants of the house giggled as he passed. it had bothered her at first, the looks that he got, but not for the same reason that it bothered viserys. while she loved Jae, viserys hated him; and for that, viserys hated her._

_but in the darkness of night when she snuck into his room, with the caressing light of the moon highlighting the angles of his maturing face, he was not the orphaned prince of her dead beautiful brother and lady Lyanna, instead he was simply a boy. a boy who had become her one and only friend in the lonely years of exile. a boy who had laughed with her and read to her. a boy who shuffled over nearly every night in his own bed to make room for her and calm her from summer storms. a boy, she knew, she was deeply in love with at the age of ten. and now, a boy she had learned that she would one day marry._

_“only if you want to be my Dany,” he finally answered sheepishly._

_she nodded quickly, blushing. she hoped she didn’t seem too eager. “i’d like nothing more.”_

_he smiled._

_a comforting silence filled the room._

_And not for the first time in her life, she had a sudden inexplicable desire to kiss him. she had kissed him, a few times before on the cheek, and he her, but somehow the gesture no longer felt innocent. not with the news of their betrothal so fresh in her mind. would he even still want her kiss? would he still want to kiss her?_

_“i was afraid,” she admitted quietly in a small voice, “that you’d be unhappy with the news.” at his confused expression, Dany poked him in the ribs. “and run away with the fisherman's daughter.” her tone was only half-teasing._

_but Jae was not impressed. “you know i'd never do that, Dany.”_

_she had known that but that had not stopped the thought from eating away at her insides. “i know, but still…”_

_Jae suddenly looked down, his eyes somber. “are you unhappy about it?” he asked quietly._

_Dany nearly laughed, but the expression on his face was one of pure seriousness. and she was suddenly filled with fear: did he really not know? Her eyes widened. “no! I-no!” she stuttered. she lifted herself onto his bed with practiced ease, but instead of taking her usual spot by his side, she moved to sit on top of him, her knees resting on either side of his hips. “i want to marry you, Jae,” she said, confessing her heart’s desire._

_“you do?’ he asked softly, his eyes growing wide._

_Dany giggled. “yes, i do.”_

_Jae suddenly sat up and touched her hair with such tenderness. “i want to marry you too, Dany.”_

_she was surprised that she did not tumble off the bed at his words. maybe the only reason she did not was because of her tight grip on the white linen of his tunic. she buried her face into his chest._

_“i'll be your wife.” she felt her face heat up again, feeling the length of his firm body beneath her own now, her head resting on his chest. their position was far too intimate, she knew, but Jae seemed not to notice. his hands were stroking her hair and the shell of her ear in small gentle movements._

_“no, Dany,” he said, at last, his voice thick with emotion, “you'll be my Queen.”_

_Dany peered up at him. his eyes were haunted and sad. she knew the weight he carried on his shoulders: the death of his mother, the death of his father, the destruction of their family, the future of their House. she knew it all. he had told her. and before the darkness of his thoughts took him from her, she leaned forward until her face was inches away from his own and poked his nose. hard. his eyes startled back, focusing on her, and he graced her unspoken effort with a small smile; it said the words he could not speak. she smiled back, stroking his face. his stubble tickled her fingertips. her Jae. never before had she wanted to kiss him as much as she did now._

_so she did._

_she surprised herself with her boldness, it was so unlike her, but when he kissed her back, Dany had never known anything sweeter than courage rewarded. his kiss was gentle and sweet. she cupped his face in her small hands while he threaded his fingers through her silvery hair. and when they finally pulled away, he was smiling that lopsided smile of his that made her heart flutter in her chest. he was so beautiful. and he was hers. he nudged his nose gently against hers, kissed her once more — too briefly for her liking — and then pulled her down beside him in one fluid motion._

_a giggle escaped her as she buried herself more closely into his neck. she took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. he smelt of exotic spices from the market, lingering in his hair, yet among the unfamiliar smells were familiar ones too: the smell of parchment, the salt of the sea breeze and the smoky fire from the hearth where he read before bed. his hand found hers buried by his side and brought it up to his face, kissing the inside of her wrist lightly before placing it over his heart._

_no words were needed between them. the silence spoke everything and more._

_Dany slept soundly._

* * *

Someone was shaking her gently. 

And, for a moment, Dany fought to stay asleep. In her dreams, she was just Dany, the young girl in the house with the red door, she was free and she was with Jae, but the shaking was persistent, and Dany had no choice but to open her eyes. 

“Please forgive me, Your Grace,” Missandei said gently, “but there has been an attack.” 

“An attack?” Dany asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes as the vestige of Jae’s face faded from her mind. 

Missandei nodded stiffly. “You are needed in the throne room.” The girl’s mouth was pulled into a soft frown.

Instantly awake, Dany rose from the warm sanctuary of her bed and took Missandei’s hands into her own. She gave them a light squeeze. “Then let us go.” 

Missandei nodded and called the handmaidens into the room, and soon Dany was wrapped in her favourite violet _tokar_ with the gold fringe and crowned. Gone was Dany, and in her place, stood Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, the Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons. Daenerys exited her chambers with Missandei a few steps behind her.   

Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, stood waiting for her to join him. He nodded as she approached him. “Your Grace,” he greeted. 

“Ser Barristan,” she returned, searching his face for any signs of injury or ailment. She found none save the dark circles under his eyes, yet, if he was tired, he showed no signs of it in his movement; he moved with all the poise expected of a knight, even an old knight. And Dany would not replace him for twenty younger men. 

Upon reaching the throne room, the Unsullied opened the purple doors for their queen and she entered. Dany smelt them before she saw them. The smell of rotting flesh was not unfamiliar to her, but that did not make it any more pleasant or welcomed. Daario and Grey Worm stood in the centre of the throne room, and at their feet were eight bodies, covered in fabric of dried blood. 

Grey Worm stepped forward. “My queen, this one found the bodies outside the city gates,” he said, his spiked helmet tucked under one arm.  

Dany frowned. “Outside the city?”

The leader of the Unsullied nodded slowly, his expression serious. 

Clutching her _tokar_ , Dany knelt by the bodies and lifted a hand towards the fabric.  

“It is unnecessary for you to see them, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said gently when he realized her intention.  

She looked up at the knight. “They died for me, Ser Barristan. I would look upon their faces.” 

She pulled back the bloody fabric, and swallowed sharply. Dust and dried blood marred their features beyond recognition, yet the silver three-headed dragon emblazoned on their black armour marked them as Unsullied. Dany may not have known the ways of war, but she had seen men die of various wounds; Khal Drogo, her sun-and-stars had died of a single festered wounded on his chest. Whoever their assailants had been, Dany saw that her men had been stabbed multiple times in various places. Yet, among the blood and gore, the most disturbing detail was that not a single man had his eyes still in his head. “Why have their eyes been gouged out?” Dany asked softly, covering the bodies once more with the fabric. 

“A barbaric practice, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her voice thick, “with political significance in Volantis.” Missandei paused, glanced at Grey Worm, and took a deep breath before continuing. “An opponent with no eyes cannot rule and lead an army into battle.” 

The words were difficult to hear. Yet Dany heard them all the same, felt the weight of them slowly sink into her mind and heart. _First Astapor, then Yunkai, and now Volantis seeks to dispose of me._ She was surrounded by enemies in a city where half the population, the more powerful half, she knew, wanted to see her eaten by her own dragons. 

She stood slowly, finding courage from somewhere deep within herself. “Remind me, Missandei, for I never received a formal education, but I thought Volantis was one of the Nine Free Cities?”

Missandei looked down. “It is, Your Grace.”

“Then why would one of the Free Cities send me such a message?”

“Your Grace, Volantis is a Free City only in name,” Ser Barristan said quickly, “its economy thrives on the slave trade. They may not train or sell slaves as Astapor or Yunkai do, but they most assuredly buy them. Buy and brand them, and have laws that punish them for disobedience.”  

“Forget Volantis and their slaves. You should inform Hizdahr zo Loraq that he has failed,” Daario Naharis said with a smirk. “The peace you asked for has been broken and blood has been spilled.”  

“No,” she replied evenly.  

Everyone looked at her in varying degrees of surprise but it was Daario that spoke first. “Did you not ask the slimy snake for ninety days without bloodshed?” He inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Dany frowned, ignoring his choice of words. “I did, but only within the walls of Meereen.” She looked back down at the bodies. “It would appear that someone has either found a way to circumvent that wish or that my enemies are not only inside the city.” _Perhaps it is both_ , she thought wearily.

“A disturbing thought, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan grumbled, scratching his beard. “Yet it may be either Astapor or Yunkai behind this attack.”

Dany turned to the Westerosi knight. “And what would they hope to gain with such a provocation?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, Volantis is old and powerful. And united with the cities of Astapor and Yunkai…”

Dany took a step towards the knight. “I would have you tell me, Ser Barristan.” 

Ser Barristan met her gaze, unflinching. “If you were to invade Volantis, under the pretence that this attack was orchestrated by them, the cities of Volantis, Astapor, and Yunkai would band together to destroy you and reestablish the old slave routes.” He sighed. “We would be unable to hold the defence of Meereen, Your Grace, from an onslaught of three different armies.”

Dany nodded, feeling braver than she knew she ought to be. “Thank you, Ser Barristan, for your honesty.” _Is it someone in Meereen or is Ser Barristan right_ , Dany thought, touching her mother’s jewelled ring on her left hand, _either way this attack is meant to provoke me into a war that I cannot win_. 

She turned suddenly to the four Unsullied stationed at the door. “See that these men be buried with the highest honours, and that none disturb their eternal rest.” 

The Unsullied bowed, and began the difficult task of removing the bodies from the throne room. The stench of rot, however, did not leave with the dead; it permeated the air, and made Dany sick to her stomach. 

Ser Barristan glanced at her. “The proper respect would be to have a day of mourning, Your Grace. I can have the palace closed off from visitors if you so wish.”

“No, Ser Barristan,” Dany said firmly. “If you are right, and this attack came from Astapor or Yunkai, I cannot let the Great Masters of Meereen know they have allies that would aid them in destroying me.” She stood straighter. “I will hold court as I always do.” 

“And give the illusion that nothing is wrong?” Daario asked, his eyes narrowed. 

“Yes,” Dany replied, twirling her mother’s ring around her finger. 

Missandei stepped forward. “Your Grace, there are already those who would speak to you.”

Dany nodded once, then turned to ascend the great steps to her ebon throne. “Then I shall meet with them. Send someone in.”

The first to enter was a boy. He was young with a rounded face, dark hair and even darker eyes. If not for his tall, lanky frame, Dany would have thought he was a child. He bowed upon entering, and stayed on his knees, despite Dany’s gentle voice asking him to stand. She learned that it was the grotesque gash across his cheek that brought him to her. His voice broke when he explained that his parents and master had died when the Unsullied smashed the gates, and the brothels would not take such a hideous boy into their service.

“Bad for business, they said,” the boy finished, his voice hoarse. Dany noticed the gash on his cheek was bleeding onto her floor. After the sack of Meereen, the price for flesh had cheapened, while the price for basic necessities — like food, board, and drink — had risen considerably, and many of the freedmen, who had been denied work, were forced to take less reputable means of obtaining coin.  

“What is your name?” Dany asked gently. 

“Zarros,” he squeaked, his forehead still touching the floor. 

“And how would you, Zarros, feel about entering into my service instead?”

The boy’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “You mean it?” When she nodded in reply, his shoulders shook with silent sobs as his forehead sunk to touch the floor again. “The Silver Queen is too kind!”

“Grey Worm,” Dany called, “please escort Zarros here to the second level. Have a bed prepared, and a warm meal served to him.” 

Grey Worm bowed. “Yes, my queen.”

As the boy was escorted out, he glanced back at her and smiled. She smiled back.  

When the palace doors shut behind them, she turned to Missandei. “After the proceedings, I wish for you to send word to a healer. I want that wound examined, washed, and wrapped at once.” 

Missandei nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

A soft _click_ of a tongue from Dany’s left caught her attention. It was Daario, and he was looking at her with a hint of disapproval. 

 _He would have had me send the boy to the fighting pits_ , Dany realized, and found it faintly galling that Daario had even expected her to consider such a wish. She would not sentence a boy to a life of violence. In her service, the boy could learn more than fight; he could learn to read, to write, and to live with the freedom that such an education could provide him. He could become a wise-man, a healer, or a fisherman if he so chose to be one. _Daario_ _grows too bold. He shares only my bed not my throne._

Next came a master and a group of freedmen. Daenerys listened to them quietly, her face blank of emotion. The master complained that the group of ex-slaves had taken up residence on his property during the siege of Meereen, and stolen all his jewels, food, and women. “I demand that they are removed from my land and punished for thieving,” the noble said, pointing at the freedmen on the opposite side of the room, “now!” 

Dany waited until his shout had stopped echoing throughout her room to answer him. “You are not in any position to demand anything from the Crown,” she said flatly. “I pardoned any crimes committed during the siege of the city, you know this?” When the man nodded stiffly, Dany continued, “I cannot deliver the justice you seek nor make them leave. You forfeited your property the moment you abandoned it.” 

The man took a step forward, his voice filled with fury. “You cannot do this!”

Beside her, Ser Barristan stirred, his hand hovering above the hilt of his sword, but Dany was faster with her words than Ser Barristan was at drawing his sword. 

She tossed her hair back. “I can, and I shall. However,” she turned to look at the group of freemen, “you four will return _every_ precious stone you stole from this man and never steal again.”

One of the freedmen stepped forward, nodding quickly. “We will, my queen. Yes, my queen.” 

“Swear it to me.” 

The four fell to their knees and swore it. 

She dismissed them and the master with a wave of her hand.

Next to enter was a freedman and his daughter. The freedman insisted that his daughter was still enslaved to her former master. When Dany asked the daughter to speak for herself, and it was revealed that she had chosen to stay in the service of her master after the siege, Dany dismissed the case entirely. She turned to the father, saying: “to be free is not to merely cast off one’s chains, my goodman, but to make one’s own choices, and your daughter has made her choice.”

The man did not like that. He cursed her and stormed away while his daughter fell to her knees and thanked Dany a hundred times over. The girl had made her choice, yet her choice troubled Dany all the same. _I came to Meereen to free the enslaved, yet they stay with their masters._

But such cases were not uncommon; many of the freed slaves had chosen to stay with their masters after the dust had settled and the blood in the streets scrubbed away. _It’s the only life they’ve ever known. Their masters are cruel, but it’s a cruelness they’ve known their entire lives. It’s familiar to them, and something familiar is better than the unknown._ The free world was full of the unknown, and for that, they fear it more than their masters. Dany pitied them with all her heart.  

Ser Barristan took half a step closer to her. “You cannot be loved by all, Your Grace,” he muttered, watching two of her Unsullied escort the girl out of the room. 

Dany said nothing. _He thinks me upset about the father’s words, but I have been called worse in my life. By my own brother, no less._ Stupid little girl. Slut. Whore. Dothraki-bitch. The words of Viserys still sometimes rang in her head. 

Missandei looked up at her. “I believe Hizdahr zo Loraq is next, Your Grace.” 

Dany knew what he wanted. And she was prepared to let him have it. “Send him in.” 

Grey Worm reentered the throne room and, following close behind him, the man Daenerys would have to marry. Hizdahr zo Loraq was a tall, slender man with flawless amber skin, hair dyed the colour red, and beady green eyes. Shining jewels and gemstones adorned his fingers and ears, and not for the first time, Dany felt utterly disgusted by the man. He would grow rich and fat as all the masters in Meereen did while the people below him starved and died in poverty. His only redeeming quality, to her eyes, was his smile. Behind him stood a host of men, carrying the banner of Hizdahr’s noble house. 

Hizdahr bowed so low, Dany thought she saw his nose brush her floor. “Your Radiance,” he began in his lilting accent, which Darrio had, on more than one occasion, attempted to imitated to make Dany laugh, “you asked for ninety days and ninety nights of peace in the city of Meereen, and I have fulfilled that request.” 

 _Interesting_ , Dany thought, but she did not let her face reveal her thoughts; instead, she clasped her hands together, showing off the ruby and onyx rings of House Targaryen. “It would appear so, Hizdahr,” she said flatly. 

He visibly deflated at her tone, and, from the corner of her eye, she saw Daario smirk. 

Hizdahr bowed again, and Dany saw his anxious look to the men behind him. _Good_. When he spoke next, any and all trace of bravado was gone. Had he expected her to throw herself into his arms? “I do not presume to know your will, my queen, but I have brought peace to the great city of Meereen as you asked, and I admit I had hoped,” he paused, glancing up at her, “to join you in marriage as agreed. Unless,” he flashed her that white smile, “of course, you have changed your mind as young girls are known to do? Or perhaps you wish for me to present you with a Valyrian steel sword named in your honour?”

The men behind him laughed.  

 _So that is the game he wishes to play?_ “I have not changed my mind,” she said coyly, presenting him with her most alluring smile, “nor do I require any sword.” What did she need of swords when she had dragons? “We will wed as agreed upon ninety days ago.” 

Hizdahr smiled, and Dany sneaked a glance at Daario. He was no longer smirking; instead, the smirk had been replaced by a fierce scowl. Dany almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, caught between two men, yet neither of them, she knew, loved her for her. _No_ , she thought, _it is my crown they both desire_. 

Daenerys Targaryen had learned long ago that she would never marry for love. Learned and accepted her fate when her brother, Viserys sold her maidenhead to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army and a crown of gold.  

But Dany … the young and innocent girl she had once been so long ago still cried for her lost love. For Jae. 

 _Had Jae lived_ , Dany thought, _he and I would have married years ago. Maybe he’d be King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I, his Queen. Maybe I would hold our son in my arms this very moment, or watch him play as children do in the sun._  

It was a thought that plagued her all too often when, on rare occasions, she’d have one goblet of wine too many, or in the darkness of the night when sleep evaded her. Even when Darrio Naharis’ arms encircled her waist after taking her over and over again, in every way a man could have a woman, and filling her womb with his seed, Dany felt alone, feeling the tears trickle down her cheeks and wanting something no man would ever be able to give her.  

She had shed so many tears for her dead nephew. Even now, six years after his death, she felt the absence of his presence as keenly as the day that it had happened in Braavos. She’d been wedded and bedded, by her sun-and-stars, no less, yet she herself could not deny it; her heart still belonged to Jae. His mischievous half-smile, the soft squeeze of his hand, the feel of his lips… he had been her heart’s one and only desire, and he had been taken from her. 

Yet the blood of the dragon does not weep, not even for kin. And she’d been reborn in fire and blood on the Dothraki sea. “Let it be known throughout Meereen that I take you, Hizdahr zo Loraq, as my husband,” Daenerys said, sitting straighter on her throne even as her neck and shoulders protested under the weight of the golden three-headed dragon crown on her head. The crown and its responsibilities were weighing heavier these days, leaving her neck stiff and her bottom sore. 

She had once jested with Ser Barristan that a good ruler needed not courage nor wisdom to rule well, but a bottom made of iron; his roar of laughter had echoed in the very room where she held war councils and tumbled out onto the terrace like flowing water. It had been some time since Ser Barristan had laughed. Even longer since Dany herself had laughed.

Hizdhar bowed an elegant bow. “I shall have the wedding preparations begin immediately. We shall be wed in a fortnight.” 

“In a fortnight,” she repeated, and sealed her fate. 

With a nod and a bow as deep as before, Hizdahr zo Loraq left the throne room. His purple _tokar_ glided along the floor soundlessly as the glitter of pearls and amethysts caught in the sun’s early light. It had not escaped her notice that the jewels had matched her most distinctive features: the silver-blonde of her hair and the purple of her eyes. Another form of flattery, she decided sourly.  

She ate a grape; it tasted as sour as her mood. 

“Have you ever considered, Your Grace, that he’s the reason the attacks began in the first place?” Ser Barristan asked quietly as he watched the future king of Meereen and his entourage slip through the purple doors of her palace. Ser Barristan’s eyes were narrowed, his great thick eyebrows furrowed together. _He looks old like that_ , Dany thought, cutting a slice of cheese deftly and handing it to Missandei before cutting one for herself. There’d been no time to break her fast that morning, and had asked one of her handmaidens to run down to the kitchen to fetch a platter of assorted cheeses, grapes, salted beef and a pitcher of watered wine.  

“The old man is right,” Daario agreed. He stood on the great steps below her, his hands resting on the gleaming hilt of his twin daggers. “I do not trust that man.”

 _You do not trust any man save yourself_ , Dany thought, taking a small sip of her watered wine to wash down the grape and cheese, _and jealousy clouds your judgment._

“Of course,” she replied, looking at Ser Barristan, “but you forget, I am a Queen, and I gave him my word.” She eyed both Barristan and Daario carefully, waiting for either man to protest. When neither did, she continued. “If the Triarchs of Volantis conspire against me, then I need the city of Meereen at my back. This marriage will give me the support of the Great Masters that I require to keep the peace.” 

“And what about the Sons of the Harpy?” Daario asked. He moved from his post to kneel before her throne, and suddenly he was no longer a bodyguard or a lover, but a subject of Meereen. “What do you intend to do about them should the killing resume?” 

“I shall handle it as any Queen would,” Dany said, her tone colder than ice as she stared down at Daario, the power games were permitted in the privacy of her chambers, but not here, not in her throne room, “swiftly and put those responsible to the sword so all the world may see that a man, stripped of finery and wealth, is a man like any other. He bleeds when he dies.” 

Daario bowed, and ascended the steps once again. 

“You are a Queen, indeed, Your Grace, but you do not belong here,” Ser Barristan said gravely.

 _Ser Jorah would have said the same_ , Dany thought sadly. But the thought of Ser Jorah, while almost as painful as the thought of Drogo, filled her with quiet anger. She could not forgive her bear as much as she wanted to. _He sold me to my enemies._ “You are right, Ser Barristan. My place is in Westeros. But I will not leave the city on the brink of utter chaos.” 

She suddenly stood, standing taller than those gathered below her. “The blood of Aegon the Conqueror may run in my veins, but I will not leave fire and blood in my wake. I have sworn to rule, and I shall.” 

Ser Barristan bowed, and when he lifted his head, she saw there were tears in his blue eyes. “You are truly Rhaegar’s sister.”

Ser Barristan could not have known, maybe if he did he would not bring up Rhaegar so often, but the mention of her brother always made her think of Rhaegar’s son…of Jae. And while Jorah and Drogo were painful to think of… Jae… she hid the pang of heartache behind her goblet of wine, and turned to Missandei. “Please send for whoever is next.” 

The next was a man. He stumbled into the throne room slowly, clutching a sack in his hands. Dany saw that his eyes were red and raw, his face pale and gaunt, and his breathing laboured with each step. She had heard the rumours of the pale mare taking root outside the city, but if people were bringing the infection into the city itself… Dany was not sure what she would do if the deadly disease spread into her city.

The throne room was filled with silence. Normally custom decreed that the petitioner spoke first, but Dany was starting to feel tired and agitated.

“What is it that brings you here before me?” She asked sharply. “Please speak, sir.”

The man’s lips were cracked and bleeding, but he spoke. “I…I have…”

Dany shifted in her seat. “Some news?” She prompted impatiently, then eying the bundle in his arms, she asked: “is there something in that sack for me?” 

At her words, the man suddenly fell to his knees and burst into tears, cradling the sack in his arms. Dany leaned back, watching the man at the steps of her throne sob in silence. There was something in his blubbering, in the way he held the sack close to his chest, that unnerved her. She had cried like that once so many years ago…

Daario rolled his eyes. “I shall remove this sight from our queen’s presence.” And before Dany could speak, to command him to stay put, Daario was hauling the sobbing man up from his knees. 

The man struggled to fight him off, and, in their struggle, lost his grip on the sack. The sack’s contents spilled onto the marble floor with a _clatter —_ and Dany saw that they were bones. Bones charred black, cracked and splintered in half for the marrow buried deep within them.

The man wrenched himself free from Daario and fell forward onto his knees once more, cradling the bones with great care. He finally looked up at Dany. “It came like a winged shadow,” he choked out, tears still streaming down his face, “the black one…it came from the sky…and it…it took…it…”

 _No, no, no,_ Dany thought, leaning forward, _no, no, oh please, no._

“Stop your blubbering!” Daario shouted, his voice echoing among the purple pillars of her hall. “The Queen will compensate you for the loss of your cattle.”

Daario was spared her wrath, for he’d been agitating her with his subtle challenges and deplorable behaviour, only by Ser Barristan. 

"Open your eyes, Daario,” Ser Barristan snapped, his dislike for the captain of the Second Sons lacing his tone, “those bones do not belong to a sheep or goat.”

 _No_ , Dany thought, her heart clenching painfully in her chest, _those are the bones of a child_. 


	2. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Doran shrugged, tossing the orange peel into an empty wine glass and beginning to slice the citrus fruit in his hand into small pieces. “Dragons and direwolves are uncommon sights to behold this far South, but … in truth, I had hoped to keep him under my roof for a few years more.” He paused, seemingly lost in a deep thought. “I should have known that this day would eventually come.” Doran looked up at him, his black eyes sharp and bright. “You will go with him.”

A training dummy fell to Dawn with a crushing blow. 

The Dornish sun sat high in the merciless blue sky above him, bathing the training yard in golden rays of light. With no gentle sea breeze, it was the kind of intense heat that would make even the most warm-blooded Dornish retreat from the sun and sand, seeking a waterskin of cool water tinged with lemon juice or, in the case of children, either too young or unconcerned with modesty, playing naked in the fountains of the Water Gardens to cool down.

And Arthur, a Dornishman by birth, felt the sweat trickle down the length of his back, leaving his training linens plastered to his skin and his mouth dry.

It had been years since he’d been in a real fight, but that did not stop him from rising before the sun and going to the training grounds each and every morning. Once a member of King Aerys’ Kingsguard and loyal friend to Rhaegar Targaryen, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, did not skip a single training session. No matter how hot the Dornish sun was on his back.

Arthur pivoted and swung the greatsword across the chest of another dummy in a wide arc. The cloth covering the dummy split open from the force of the blow, and from it burst forth a spray of red sand.

Dawn, the ancestral greatsword of House Dayne, was an extension of his own arms, and he never faltered, never missed a single swing in his morning drills. As he went into a circuit of parry techniques, he was reminded of similar mornings spent in the training grounds outside King’s Landing so many years ago with Ser Oswell and Ser Jonothor, and Prince Rhaegar himself.

Arthur paused, his arms, straining against the weight of the heavy greatsword, still raised in the air. _Rhaegar_ …The blade of Dawn did not descend on another dummy; instead, the sword and the knight that wielded the mighty blade sunk slowly to the ground. The sand was hot beneath his knees. 

It had been nineteen years, but the thought of Rhaegar and Lyanna still filled Arthur with a sorrow too deep for words. He’d been sworn to protect them both, and he had, to the best of his ability, but the Prince and Princess had been more than mere duty and honour to him; they had been his dearest and most beloved friends. Arthur could still hear their laughs in the wind if he listened hard enough. He’d seen them wed before the weirwood at Harrenhal, in front of the High Septon, and seen Lyanna’s belly swell with the Prince’s child months later in the mountains of Dorne. _A babe of dragons and wolves_ , Lyanna had said with a lopsided grin, sitting on a wooden barrel of salted beef in the makeshift dining space of the lonely Tower in the Prince’s Pass with Arthur and his sworn brothers. Oh, how Rhaegar had smiled …

His eyes stung, and telling himself that it was only the rays of the sun bothering him, Arthur lifted himself from the sand with shaking hands. He closed his eyes, for the briefest of moments, took a deep breath, and then cut down the remaining four dummies lining the edge of the training ground with deadly accuracy. 

Arthur was wiping the layer of sweat from his forehead when he heard movement behind him. With Dawn still clutched in his hands, Arthur turned and saw Areo Hotah coming towards him with his longaxe at the ready.  

Any other man would have been caught off guard, but Arthur was not just any man. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, and the Kingsguard did not flee. Arthur almost smiled as beckoned Areo to him with a quick motion of his hand.

And Areo Hotah did not hesitate; he rushed forward with his axe raised. 

Arthur parried the downward strike of the axe, and sent the man stumbling backwards from the sheer force of the countermove. But Areo Hotah had been trained in Norvos by the Bearded Priests, and he would not fall, not even from a blow by one of the Kingsguard. Areo caught himself, and rose swiftly to meet Dawn’s descending blade once more. Their weapons rang together in a ferocious rhythm, echoing across the yard and between the palm trees. Clumps of sand flew up behind them with every sidestep, pivot and lunge they took.

Yet fortune would favour the Westerosi knight. Arthur ducked an incoming blow — the steel missing his head by inches — and saw the axehead get caught in the wiry truck of a palm tree behind him. Arthur smiled. _Now is my chance._ Areo tugged the shaft not once, not twice, but _thrice_ before it came loose, and turned to find the milkglass blade of Dawn hovering inches away from his throat. Arthur panted, feeling his muscles burn under the weight of the greatsword, but willed his arms and voice steady when he asked: “Do you yield?” 

Areo chuckled and nodded, lowering his axe into the sand. He reached for the waterskin hanging at his snakeskin belt, took a long drink from it, then offered it to Arthur, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. 

Arthur drank long and deep, and only when he’d finished the last drop did he return it to the patient captain.

“Our prince requests that you join him, Ser Arthur,” Areo said, a wry smile on his face even as he gasped for breath. Sweat beaded around the fringe of the man’s white hair, and the armour he wore was glistening; whether from the heat or the intensity of their dual, Arthur did not know.

He simply nodded in response, walking over to retrieve the scabbard of Dawn from the opposite end of the yard. While the sword was renowned, throughout the Seven Kingdoms, for its milky-white blade and celestial glow, the scabbard itself was an unrivalled work of art: a dark leather, with a protective platinum plate and tip, engraved along its length with the symbols of the star, sun and moon and the words of House Dayne: _Dawn Brings the Light_. A single large amethyst set into the centre of the scabbard shone brightly up at him as he sheathed the sword. 

With Dawn strapped to his back once more, Arthur gestured for Areo to lead the way into the palace. He did not bother asking the captain of the guard what Prince Doran wanted with him. 

Serve. Obey. Protect. 

Those were the words Aero lived by, and in that regard, Ser Arthur understood him better than most. He too had lived by similar words his entire life. 

 _Just not for a Prince of Dorne_ , Arthur thought as he followed the captain into the main hall of the palace, the pale pink marble of the Water Gardens a blur beneath his feet. 

Prince Doran’s family solar was amongst the orange trees. Attached to the palace, the sheltered terrace was paved with sandstone and bordered by a half-wall made of smooth, white stone. A wooden pergola was built into the half-wall and a canopy of the finest orange silk was draped over the wooden beams, hanging to the floor in soft curls of lovely material. Arthur saw that the long, cedar table in the centre of the room was covered with gleaming silver platters of sweet-smelling food. Loafs of fresh bread smeared with a variety of nut butters and jams, duck eggs fried in rosemary oil olive and cayenne peppers, two dozen anise-spiced sausages of wild boar, long strips of crispy bacon, an assortment of fresh fruits and two pitchers — one of cool lemon water and the other of sweet red wine — beckoned from across the room. Arthur’s stomach growled noisily and his mouth began to water. He had broken his fast only on a single buttered roll hours before. 

The soft fragrance of oranges and other citrus fruits wafted through the cool breeze, filling the air with sweetness, yet Arthur sensed a darkness, a palpable tension in the air when Areo Hotah opened the door for him.

With a nod of thanks, Arthur stepped onto the terrace and scanned the room, taking note of all those seated around the long table: Prince Doran sat at the farthest end, facing the arched doorway while Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, and Arianne sat in pairs to his left and right. Prince Doran was surrounded by women, yet there was a noticeable absence from the table. _Ellaria is missing_ , Arthur realized, and pushed the thought from his mind. He was not here to judge the rulings and commands of a Dornish Prince. He was here to protect and serve, as he always had, a Targaryen.  

And there, at the opposite end of the table, stood Arthur’s sole reason for living: the trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna, the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaehaerys Targaryen. 

With eyes as grey as winter’s stormy sky and unruly, dark brown hair framing a long, bearded face, Jaehaerys Targaryen looked more a Stark of Winterfell than, if rumours were to be believed, any of Lord Eddard’s trueborn sons. _Dead_ _sons_ , Arthur reminded himself. The thought was a disquieting one. The proud and ancient House of Stark disgraced…and extinct? Something about that thought didn’t feel right to Arthur at all. _Not while Lyanna’s son still draws breath._

For Jaehaerys’ colouring and features were, indeed, all Lyanna’s, yet, his lean and lithe frame, Arthur knew, were all Rhaegar’s. Like his father before him, Jaehaerys was often distant and sad, his features impassive, revealing none of his thoughts, and filled with a quiet melancholy that made him seem detached and cold. More often than not, Jaehaerys would be found with his nose buried between the worn pages of an ancient tome or training alone in the sparring yard. Some would mistake it for arrogance, Arthur knew, yet that could not be further from the truth: the boy was humble to a fault. 

Though, Arthur knew Jaehaerys had more reason than most to boast. Arthur himself had trained the exiled Targaryen in the art of combat — to wield a lance, sword and bow — since the boy was strong enough to hold a stick. And Jaehaerys was a naturally gifted swordsman. He had mastered weapons with ease, learning the lance and sword within two years of dedicated practice, and those that he didn’t, such as the spear or bow, he spent day and night perfecting. _Rhaegar was the same,_ Arthur thought, sadly, remembering. Rhaegar had excelled at anything he put his mind to. Yet the ways of war were not all he had taught Rhaegar’s son. _I taught him to navigate the seas with only the stars above for guidance, to read and to write, and to speak in several languages other than the Common Tongue…_

What bothered Arthur was that Jaehaerys rarely smiled.

As a young boy in Braavos, Jaehaerys had been happy. The boy’s wolfish laugh had echoed in the long corridors of the house and his lopsided smile had lit up the stormiest nights. But now, at nine-and-ten, Jaehaerys was more often seen brooding than laughing. His carefree laughs and lopsided smiles seemed naught but a fond and distant memory — and, even now, when Arthur did see Jaehaerys smile faintly, it never seemed to reach his sad eyes. 

 _But he has reason to be sad_ , Arthur told himself, acknowledging the little waves of the Sand Snakes and Arianne with a nod. _He’s been forced to learn lessons that no one could teach him with books and words_. How to hide from unfriendly eyes, how to clean and stitch an open wound, even how to kill a man in cold blood. _He’s been hunted, hungry and afraid. He’s seen people he loves killed in front of him. He even endures the surname Sand._

It had been Prince Doran’s idea: Jon Sand.

When they had arrived in Dorne six years ago, Prince Doran had taken the boy under his protection at the cost of his royal name. Arthur had not liked that. It was an insult to Rhaegar and Lyanna to call their son, not only by a false name, but by a bastard’s surname. Yet Doran had been right; it was for the boy’s own safety. 

So, to the common people of Dorne, Jaehaerys Targaryen did not exist. He was not a Prince or a King, but just another bastard of their beloved, yet insatiable Prince Oberyn. Just another Sand Snake. 

But, in return, Jaehaerys had gained the Sand Snakes and Prince Doran’s own children as siblings and the finest education one could provide a child in Westeros. The same tutor who taught Arianne, Quentyn and Trystane had also educated Jaehaerys, teaching him: history, law, economics, religion, languages, arithmetic, and poetry. Arthur took comfort it that; it eased the shadow of worry from his mind somewhat. _Jaehaerys_ _may not be called Your Grace, but he has not grown up alone as Rhaegar did_. It was the thought that Arthur clung to when Rhaegar and Lyanna’s shades haunted him at night. Would they be saddened by the fact that their son did not answer to his true name, but a false name granted to him for his own protection? Arthur knew not, but he did know, with utmost certainty, was that the little babe he’d taken from the Tower of Joy — from the arms of Princess Lyanna — had grown into a man worthy of the crown and throne. A man worthy to be called a king _._  

And the King was speaking now. 

“I must leave,” Jaehaerys was saying, his tone firm like iron. It had been years since Rhaegar’s death, but Arthur still heard his voice every time Jaehaerys spoke. Yet, the words Jaehaerys spoke now sounded not of Rhaegar, but of the willful and beautiful Lyanna. They were filled with the same strong conviction that Lyanna herself had wielded in lieu of a weapon. 

And with the iron tones of Rhaegar and the conviction of Lyanna, Jaehaerys could make lesser men tremble in fear, but Prince Doran was a Prince in his own right. 

“I forbid it, Jon. It is far too dangerous,” Prince Doran said, shaking his head. “The Royal Fleet patrols the Narrow Sea, and the hosts of the Tyrells and Lannisters no doubt amass in the capital to wage war against us this very moment.”

“Now is the best time.” Jaehaerys countered quickly. “Cersei Lannister is distracted. She mourns the death of her son, her father, and now her daughter. The Riverlands and Iron Islands are still in open rebellion against the Crown, and rumour has it that the boy-King, Tommen, will wed Lady Margaery Tyrell in less than a fortnight.” 

Prince Doran darkened at his words. “Are you so eager to join the dead?” He asked sharply, his voice a crack of a whip. “My answer is no, Jon. Too many have already been lost and I will not have you follow the dead in such a foolhardy pursuit of bravery.”

The room was filled with silence, and perhaps Doran believed that the discussion would be dropped, but Arthur knew that would not be the case; Jaehaerys, when he wanted to, could be as relentless as the tide.

“With respect, my prince, I don’t need your permission. I only tell you of my intention to leave for the love and respect I bear you and your family,” Jaehaerys said. His hands were braced against the smooth cedar table. “How much more of my family must suffer and die before this vicious cycle of conflict ends? My half-siblings, Rhaeneys and Aegon, died at the hands of the Mountain. Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn both died at his hands as well. My mother’s noble house has been destroyed, either beheaded, betrayed, or butchered like animals at a wedding feast in the Riverlands. My cousin Sansa was forced to marry a Lannister, and is now apparently missing. The Boltons, who schemed with Tywin Lannister and betrayed my cousin Robb, now rule from Winterfell as Wardens of the North…” Arthur heard Jaehaerys take a deep intake of air. “I will not remain on the edge of the world, eating grapefruit and drinking wine like some perfumed lord. I will reclaim the seat of the North in honour of my mother’s family with fire and blood.”

Prince Doran stared at Jaehaerys, then, finally noticing Arthur standing at the back of the room, frowned deeply. “I will not send Dornish men to the North, Jon. If you leave, you do so without the fire of the rising sun. Do you understand?” The Prince of Dorne leaned forward. “You leave without my blessing or protection.” 

“I understand,” Jaehaerys said, nodding stiffly. 

And without a word more, Jaehaerys turned on his heel and left the room. He acknowledged Arthur with a gruff nod as he passed, but did not slow down, turning the corner and disappearing from sight entirely. 

Prince Doran waved a hand at his nieces and daughter. “Leave us,” he said, his dark eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “I have business to discuss with Ser Arthur here.” 

Silently and sullenly, the girls left the room, throwing Arthur curious looks over their shoulders as they left; yet, the moment they crossed the threshold, Areo slammed the door shut and bolted it behind them with a resounding _snap_. 

Arthur walked towards the table, standing directly in the empty space his King had stood not a moment before. “You called for me, my prince?” 

Doran sighed, reaching for the blood orange on his plate and a knife. “I was hoping that you would have intervened there,” he said with a gesture towards the door. The Prince of Dorne was old, but he had never looked it more than he did now. Old, tired and agitated. 

And Arthur could not help but notice the way the Prince’s hand, red and swollen like the cherries Dorne produced every year, shook violently as he began to peel the orange with the knife. “I will not tell him which path to take,” Arthur replied tensely.

Doran nodded. “I expected as much, yet I had hoped you would help me persuade him to stay.” The knife stopped moving for a moment. “I have done all I can to keep him safe, but I’m afraid he no longer listens to me.” 

“He is the son of a dragon and a direwolf,” Arthur said, walking towards the Prince of Dorne. He did not, however, take the empty seat beside him. “A knight of the Kingsguard does not sit unless he is astride a horse,” Ser Gerold had once said to him, and it still rang true in Arthur’s mind. _He taught me so many things, and I have done my best to pass those lessons onto Jaehaerys. Though, he surely would have been a better teacher for a King than I._ But Gerold Hightower, like Rhaegar and Lyanna, was dead. Killed by the blades of assassins in Braavos. _At least, he died fulfilling his vows as a knight of the Kingsguard._ And yet, the young King had been left with no one — no father, no mother, no siblings, and no wise or learned man for a teacher — expect Arthur. Another one of the Gods cruel jokes, he had once thought darkly, to leave the future King of Westeros in the care of a knight whose reputation had been for being the deadliest of King Aerys’ Kingsguard. _Oswell would have found that most amusing._ But Oswell too was long dead. Arthur sighed, gripping the back of the chair in front of him to keep the weight of the dead from knocking him to his knees once more. “Neither beast is known to be particularly obedient.” 

Prince Doran shrugged, tossing the orange peel into an empty wine glass and beginning to slice the citrus fruit in his hand into small pieces. “Dragons and direwolves are uncommon sights to behold this far South, but … in truth, I had hoped to keep him under my roof for a few years more.” He paused, seemingly lost in a deep thought. “I should have known that this day would eventually come.” Doran looked up at him, his black eyes sharp and bright. “You will go with him.” 

It wasn’t a question, yet Arthur nodded all the same. He would follow his King to the distant lands of the East — to Qarth, Yi Ti, and Asshai-by-the-Shadow — if need be. Jaehaerys was all he had left to live for.   

Doran leaned back in his wheelchair. “Arthur … you understand why I must not involve Dorne in this northern affair?” 

“I do,” Arthur said, watching Doran struggle to eat an orange slice and thinking of the fierce lioness in King’s Landing. News from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was infrequent and unreliable in Dorne. It had always been that way, even when Arthur had been a small boy in Starfall. It was part of the reason he’d taken Jaehaerys to Sunspear after the attack in Braavos. Only rumours and whispers ever reached the distant deserts of the South; yet, the news of the infamous weddings had spread to the southernmost kingdom of Westeros as quickly as dragon fire on a dry field. The bloody affair minstrels called the Red Wedding had not been an easy thing to hear. Jaehaerys had brooded in quiet fury for weeks and weeks after hearing the news of the treachery in the Riverlands. And, as far as Arthur knew, Tyrion Lannister had claimed the life of the Young Usurper, Joffery, at the wedding feast singers and poets called the Purple Wedding. _If Cersei still hunts her own brother for the death of her son,_ Arthur thought, _she will most certainly avenge her daughter’s death._ He flexed the fingers of his dominant hand. _Dorne will not be safe for Jaehaerys._

Doran swallowed loudly and took a swig of lemon water before he spoke again. “Jaehaerys is our only hope for justice … and peace.” He suddenly reached out and grabbed Arthur’s wrist with surprising strength for a man whose fingers were red, swollen and deformed. “Protect him, Arthur,” Doran said, his eyes pleading. 

Arthur nodded, backing away slowly, and left the room. When he reached the empty corridor, he paused. In the years that he and Jaehaerys had been guests in Dorne, their time had been spent between Sunspear and the Water Gardens, and Arthur had walked these corridors so many times that his feet carried him nearly on their own towards the one place he was sure Jaehaerys had gone.

Before long, Arthur found himself standing in front of his King’s bedchamber. There were stone dragons on either side of the red door, silently, yet boldly signalling the important occupant in the room. Perhaps it was fitting that the private chambers Jaehaerys called his own once housed the Targaryen bride, Daenerys, to whom the Water Gardens had been built for so many years ago. Or was cruel? Arthur did not know nor did he dwell on the thought. He knocked twice on the wooden surface and stepped back, waiting for an answer.  

He did not have to wait long. 

“Come in,” came the muffled reply. 

Arthur opened the door and, as he entered, patted one of the stone dragons on the head. 

Overlooking the lush greenery and the fountains of the Water Gardens, the room gifted to the exiled Targaryen King was utterly breathtaking. The enormous floor-length windows were flung wide open, allowing the cool breeze, filled with the fruity sweetness of apricots and peaches, into the sunlit room. A large four-poster bed with a canopy of the finest red silk was pushed up against the western wall of the room and flanked by two side tables made of dark oak. There was a long, ornate table in the centre of the room, and on it a variety of objects: a silver tray of assorted fresh fruits and nuts, a bottle of unopened Dornish wine, a hawk feather quill dipped in an empty inkwell, a pile of books and unfurled scrolls that bore elegant handwriting, and a sword sheathed in scabbard of black leather and polished bronze. 

Arthur had half-expected to find Jaehaerys seated at the table, bent over a book as he normally was at this time of the day, but instead, he found his King crouched down in front of a chest, rummaging through its contents.

 “I do not ask for you to come with me, Arthur,” Jaehaerys said, his voice low and serious. He did not look up when he spoke, but rather kept pulling a few books and broken quills out from the bottom of the chest. “The road will be dangerous.”

Arthur shut the door behind him softly. “I swore to your father and mother that I’d protect you with my dying breath, and I will.” He paused, then smiled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Besides … do you expect me to stay here and get fat off boar sausages while you sail North to war?” 

Jaehaerys stopped rummaging through the chest and looked up at him. There was a faint smile on his long face. The sight of it made Arthur’s heart ache with such longing. _Lyanna_. “Imagine that? The legendary Sword of the Morning fat and living in some glorious white castle by the sparkling blue sea.”  

Arthur chuckled. “It sounds horrible,” he said dryly, leaning against the wooden frame of the ornate door and feeling the familiar weight of Dawn on his back. The mere thought of hanging up his sword and renouncing his knightly vows in exchange for a life of peace and quiet was unsettling. S _urely that is not the life meant for an anointed knight._ He had been born the second son of House Dayne, and had excelled at fighting from a young age. _Being a knight is all I know._ “The Lannisters tried to bestow that honour onto Ser Barristan, if I remember correctly, some number of years ago at the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings.” 

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, turning back to the chest and its contents. “Cersei’s eldest son … the one who died at his wedding feast … Joffery, was it?” He paused, thinking. “He tried, yes — and he was a fool to do so. One does not simply dismiss a knight from the Kingsguard.” 

Arthur agreed. Yet … he could not help wondering where Ser Barristan had gone after that dismissal. It nagged at the back of his mind. Ser Barristan had bent the knee to the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, on the same field of battle where Rhaegar’s body lay dead and broken in the muddy waters of the Trident, but the knight the common folk called Barristan the Bold was a peerless warrior in his own right. If Barristan had known that a trueborn son of Rhaegar lived, would he had joined their cause? But Arthur did not say any of those things. He pushed the thought of Barristan from his mind entirely, and instead gestured towards the chest with his boot. “What are you searching for?” 

“This.” 

Jaehaerys held up a large fabric of furled cloth, and moved to lay it flat on the table, covering all the silverware on the table in one fell swoop. 

Amused, Arthur followed and peered over Jaehaerys’ shoulder to get a better look. It was a map of the North. Intricately detailed, Arthur saw that every major river, forest and town in the North was painted on its faded surface. The proud direwolf sigil of House Stark was sewn with a grey thread above the largest castle marked as Winterfell. 

The ancestral seat of House Stark … Arthur had been there only once in his life, and at the behest of Rhaegar himself. The spiralling towers of Winterfell, extending into the snowy, grey sky like frosty pillars of ice had stolen the breath from Rhaegar, Oswell and himself. Winterfell had been more beautiful and more impressive than any castle in the South, even the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill. Though, when Lyanna had jumped down from the high walls and into a large snowdrift, Rhaegar had seemed to stop breathing entirely. Until Lyanna’s head burst out of the snow. The laughter of the knights had rung out in the night as Rhaegar he rode out to meet Lyanna. Arthur still recalled when Rhaegar had pulled her from the snowdrift and kissed her, with such passion, the snow had seemed to melt around them. 

Jaehaerys stared down at the map, holding his chin in his hand. “Winterfell is currently occupied by the Boltons, and I would not dare travel so close to King’s Landing in a Dornish ship.” He glanced over his shoulder to Arthur. “That leaves us with no choice but to sail westward across the arm of Dorne to the Sunset Sea and, then…” Jaehaerys touched the map, tracing the path as he spoke with his index finger, “… sail North to the Stony Shore or perhaps Bear Island. I can rally the Northern Houses as I march towards Winterfell.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’ve given this some thought already.” 

“I have,” replied Jaehaerys. 

“It will be a long voyage though,” Arthur muttered, stroking his chin. 

Jaehaerys nodded. “It shall, but now is the best time to make such a voyage. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms are currently vying for control of the Iron Throne. No one will expect an attack in the North, especially the Boltons. They think the direwolves all dead and gone.”

 _He’s right_ , Arthur realized, remembering his King’s words in Doran’s solar. _Now is the best time to join the great game. With Lord Tywin dead and Cersei preoccupied with the Tyrells in King’s Landing, enraged with the Martells in Dorne, and forced to deal with the rebellions in the Riverlands and Iron Islands, the North will be left completely without aid from the Crown should there be an attack on Winterfell._ Despite himself, Arthur found he was even more impressed. Jaehaerys was not acting upon some foolish boyhood fantasy, to reclaim the distant home of his estranged family as Aegon the Conqueror or Daeron the Young Dragon reborn, but upon his wicked insightfulness, to observe the precarious political state in the Seven Kingdoms to plan a conquest, that would have rivalled Tywin Lannister. _The Boltons will be left to defend the North entirely alone._ And Arthur, being the military man that he was, could appreciate a well-devised plan of attack. _He already plays to win the great game, yet_ … He turned to face Jaehaerys. “You are right,” he said, “but instead of sailing to the Stony Shore or Bear Island, we should sail as far North as possible.” Arthur tapped the northernmost section of the map. “Make our landing on the western shore near the Shadow Tower at the Wall.” 

Jaehaerys frowned at his words. “The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms, Arthur. Why would I want to sail to the Wall and not, instead, to the Mormonts of Bear Island?”

“Bear Island,” Arthur began, indicating the island with his chin, “is isolated in the middle of the Bay of Ice. The Shadow Tower, while further away, yes, is at least on the mainland. It’ll be far easier to assemble a force strong enough to retake Winterfell from the mainland than on an island. You also do not know which of the northern lords have already sworn fealty to House Bolton. At the Shadow Tower, you may learn which of the northern houses to call upon, in a defensible position, then march south to Winterfell as a unified force.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “And your great-great-great-uncle Aemon … he is the maester at Castle Black.”

Jaehaerys’ head snapped up. “I have an uncle?” He asked, seeming momentarily stunned by the news, but then frowned as he gazed at Arthur with narrowed eyes. _Lyanna’s eyes._ Arthur had to look away. “Why haven’t you mention him before to me, Arthur?”

 _For the same reason, I did not tell you of your uncle Ned’s death_ , Arthur thought, feeling the swell of guilt in his breast, but kept the thought to himself. 

Family. 

It was the one thing Arthur knew Jaehaerys desired above all else, even more than bringing fire and blood upon the Houses of Lannister, Bolton, and Baratheon. It had been Arianne who had told Jaehaerys of Lord Eddard Stark’s death after sneaking into her father’s private solar one night and eavesdropping on the conversations within. And Jaehaerys had not waited an hour after breakfast before coming into Doran’s solar and asking to aid his cousin, Robb, and bring justice to the Lannisters. Prince Doran had been furious with Arianne for months.   

Arthur shrugged, trying — and failing — to push away the feeling of guilt as he deflected the question as he would the swing of a greataxe. “I’m telling you now. Maester Aemon is old, but he is wise beyond measure. Your father often wrote to him, seeking his counsel on a variety of issues. In fact, your father and I once made the journey to visit him at Castle Black some years ago.” 

Jaehaerys stared at him, his eyes still narrowed. “Was this the same journey where Father went to Winterfell for Mother?” 

Grateful for the question, Arthur shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, honestly, “it was not.” Arthur could not stomach lies or deceit; it was far easier to tell the truth. 

“The Shadow Tower then?” asked Jaehaerys. 

“It’s the safer option, I believe,” Arthur said. “We need not stay there, we can ride east to Castle Black, meet with Maester Aemon and assemble a force loyal to the memory of the Starks to take Winterfell. The Boltons will not expect an attack to come from that far North.”

Jaehaerys was silent for a moment. “The memory of the Starks…” He suddenly nodded, and Arthur saw the sadness flicker behind his grey eyes. “We will sail to the Wall.” 

Arthur bowed his head.   

“This conflict with the Lannisters will only escalate from here, you know that, right?” Jaehaerys asked, his face serious as he walked to where his sword lay waiting on the table. “Any illusion of peace between House Martell and House Lannister has just been shattered by the death of Lady Myrcella…”

Arthur nodded. “Indeed, it shall.”  

“Cersei Lannister’s desire for revenge will bring the war to Dorne.” Jaehaerys sighed, running a hand over his bearded face. He already looked tired. “It appears Prince Doran shall have quite a headache in the coming months while I am gone.” 

Arthur gestured at the map in front of them. “You add to Prince Doran’s headache by taking this expedition North.” 

Jaehaerys looked away to the beautiful grounds below his windows. “It may be foolish, I know that, but I cannot remain here, Arthur. I have hidden my entire life … in Lys, in Tyrosh … in Braavos, and in Dorne. I will not hide or run any longer.” He glanced at the map of the North on the table. “Don’t you recall? I wanted to ride North the moment the Lannisters claimed my Uncle Eddard’s head, but I didn’t … I heeded your advice, the counsel of Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn to wait for a more opportune moment to reveal myself.” He turned slowly to look Arthur directly in the face. “I’m the blood of the dragon and wolf, did you truly expect me to sit and wait forever?” 

“No,” Ser Arthur admitted, unable to stop the swell of pride that rose in his breast as he met his King’s determined gaze, “I’d be disappointed if you did.” 

Jaehaerys seemed surprised at that. “Would you?”

Arthur nodded. “I would. I want to protect you, yes — yet, someone with your heart should not remain hidden at the far reaches of the world forever. Don’t try to deny it. You have a good heart. A good heart, a sharp mind, and a strong arm.” _And I will see you seated on the throne of your ancestors,_ Arthur thought, thinking of Lyanna’s pale face, _let history know two Kingmakers for I shall crown you in a circlet of iron and rubies myself as Criston Cole crowned Aegon II_. The actions of Lord Commander Criston had sparked the Dance of the Dragons, the bloody civil war between King Aegon II and his half-sister Rhaenyra, and filled the countryside of Westeros with fire and blood. But, unlike Criston, who had been, according to songs and some history books, motivated by resentment and jealousy over Rhaenya’s rejection of him years prior, Arthur had a promise to keep. _Promise me, Arthur_ , Lyanna had whispered weakly, stoking the wisps of dark hair from her newborn son’s red face as all the colour fled from her own. _Take him, Arthur. Protect him. Promise me._ Arthur could still hear her voice in his dreams. He looked up into the face of Lyanna’s son. “You were born to rule, Jaehaerys.” 

_I will not fail you, my Princess. I promise._

Jaehaerys snorted, and Arthur watched him strap his sword to his left hip with deft hands. “You only say that because you helped raise me.” 

Arthur shook his head. “I had nothing to do with it. You’ve always known what was right, even as a child,” he said, stepping forward to grab Jaehaerys’ shoulders and feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath his hands. _He is far stronger than I was at nine-and-ten._ “I know the goodness of your heart. You show it in your every action, your every word … you even tried to protect the Lannister girl …” 

Jaehaerys’ mouth twisted with emotion. “I tried, and I failed,” he muttered, pulling away and walking over to the open windows, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “She was just a little girl, Arthur.” 

“A Lannister.” Arthur said, watching for a reaction.

Jaehaerys did not disappoint him. His King turned to face him, and Arthur saw his stormy eyes were dark and his mouth a tight line. “Yes, she was a Lannister, but she was also an innocent child.” He sighed. “Who am I to judge a child by the sins of their parents, Arthur?” He looked away, and when he spoke again, his voice was sad and so very distant. “The love my father and mother bore for one another tore the Seven Kingdoms apart, and set the events of the present day into motion.”

Arthur said nothing. There were no words, no beautiful lies, that he would bring himself to tell the man in front of him. Not when his words rang truer than steel. 

Jaehaerys sighed once more, breaking the heavy silence. “The world is cruel to little girls,” he muttered. And at his words, a sudden cool wind blew into the room. It made Arthur shiver in his damp clothes. “Myrcella did not deserve to die.” 

 _Like Daenerys?_ But Arthur would not dare say her name. Six years, and the death of the little Targaryen princess was still an unspoken subject between them. _Perhaps it always will be…_

“Robert Baratheon thought differently about your half-siblings,” Arthur said instead, thinking of the lusty, loud man Eddard Stark had called a friend, the same lusty, loud man who had shattered the breastplate of Lyanna’s husband with a single swing of his warhammer. Yet, even with Lyanna’s son, Robert was a far safer subject to broach than sweet, little Daenerys. 

 Jaehaerys lifted his chin, and Arthur saw the fire in his eyes at the mention of the Usurper. “I am not Robert Baratheon.”

“No,” Arthur agreed solemnly, “you are a Targaryen. The last Targaryen left in the world.”

A look of sadness crossed Jaehaerys’ face, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Arthur would never know the words he meant to speak because the door was suddenly thrown open, and Tyene, Nymeria, Obara, and Arianne entered the room. 

“Jon!” Tyene squealed, running forward to envelop Jaehaerys in a bone-crushing hug. “How can you do this to me?” She asked, her big brown, doe-like eyes blinking up innocently from a round face. Yet, Arthur knew, to mistake the innocence in Tyene’s youthful appearance for weakness would be the death of a foolish man. 

The Sand Snakes and Princess Arianne were far more than pretty faces. _They conceal the poisoned daggers under their charm and beauty like venomous vipers lurking in the tall grass._ Yet Jaehaerys was raised by vipers, Arthur reminded himself. Prince Oberyn had claimed the boy as his bastard son and, in doing so, had taken interest in every aspect of the boy’s life. 

Prince Oberyn had scoffed at Doran’s approach to education, telling his older brother that no fake son of his would not know the ways of hunting or fishing. Arthur had not protested; so, Oberyn had taught Jaehaerys to fight with a spear, to hunt and fish, to ride a horse, to make snares, to milk the venom from a viper, even to make wine and olive oil. Arthur even knew Oberyn had offered to buy the boy’s first time with a woman as a nameday gift when the boy reached majority — but whether Jaehaerys had taken him up on the offer, Arthur was not sure; somehow he thought not. 

“And what exactly am I doing to you?” Jaehaerys asked, his eyebrows raised in confusion as he tried to disentangle himself from Tyene’s embrace to no success. Arthur nearly failed to keep his face a mask as he watched them.  

“Leaving her with no one but me to knock her pretty little face in the dirt.” Obara quipped with a smirk. The eldest of the Sand Snakes look so happy with the notion that Arthur felt a wave of protectiveness for Tyene. But Tyene didn’t need his protecting. 

Tyene whirled around, and slapped Obara squarely across the jaw. “Would you look at that,” Tyene said with feigned innocence, “…your ugly face is now vastly improved.”

“You little bitch!” Obara growled, and pulled on a loose strand of Tyene’s hair. 

“Is it true, Jon?” Nymeria asked, ignoring her sisters’ fighting. Her hands rested on her narrow hips, dangerously close to the handle of her bullwhip, curled like a venomous viper around her waist. “Do you really mean to take the journey North to reclaim Winterfell from the Boltons?” 

Jaehaerys nodded. “I do, sister.” 

There was something about Nymeria’s question that roused Arthur’s suspicion. To his knowledge, Jaehaerys hadn’t mentioned anything about reclaiming Winterfell in front of them. Then, it dawned on him — they’d been eavesdropping. _Clever girls_ , Arthur thought with a prickle of pride, in spite of the warning in his heart. No good would come from the girls knowing of Jaehaerys’ plans or location. _Oberyn would have been proud at least._ Arthur rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of Dawn on his back as he watched the girls interact with his King. _They’re too clever for their own good._

Arthur’s fears were only confirmed when Obara stepped forward, pushing Tyene out of her way, and grasped Jaehaerys firmly by the shoulders. “Take me with you, brother. I want to stand by your side when you reclaim the North from the Lannister puppets.” 

Jaehaerys squeezed the underside of her arms in return. “I cannot ask that ... not after what happened to your father.”

“He’s right, sweet cousin,” Arianne said suddenly, her tone bored. The Princess of Sunspear, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, stood by the windows, watching the children play in the fountains far below. “But then again,” Arianne turned to face them, and Arthur noticed the way her eyes moved lazily over Jaehaerys’ lean frame and lingered around his mouth, “I suppose, Jon is always right.” The thin silk of her orange dress left nothing to the imagination, and Arthur found himself nearly unable to avert his eyes from her alluring form. Arianne was stunningly beautiful, and that beauty was only enhanced by her own elegance and intelligence. “My father won't let any of us leave.” She paused, then glided towards the table and uncorked the bottle of wine, pouring herself a tall cup. “Not after what happen with little Myrcella…” She took a long sip of her wine. 

Silence filled the room, and Arthur was certain there was more she meant to say, but his presence made her — made them all — hold their tongues. _They don’t trust me_ , Arthur realized, slightly dismayed. It was not unexpected though; in fact, it was rather mutual. Arthur, as much as he loved Princess Arianne with all his heart, her scheme to set the Lannister children against one another had gotten Myrcella killed and inadvertently put Jaehaerys in danger, and for that, he was wary of her. That, and the fact, that he knew she sought to seduce his King. 

 _You will not seduce him,_ Arthur thought, watching Arianne swirl the red wine around in her cup, _as you did, Ser Arys Oakheart._

Ser Arys had been a minor distraction. A plaything, Arthur had heard Arianne say, as casually as one may remark that the sun was too hot, when Nymeria had questioned her weeks after the knight’s and Lady Myrcella’s bodies were shipped back to King’s Landing with Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. Arthur frowned. _It is Jaehaerys that she wants to bed._

Since they’d arrived in Dorne, the heiress of Dorne had been all eyes and smiles at Jaehaerys, even after she learned that she had once been betrothed to Jaehaerys’ uncle, Prince Viserys. If anything, the news that she had once been meant to wed a Targaryen seemed to have only encouraged her, making low-cut dresses that flaunted her large, round breasts, flat stomach and wide hips the preferred attire for the Princess. And it did get her attention. Arianne was difficult to not to notice. Arthur had noticed the stares of desire Arianne’s cunning wit and voluptuous form drew from most men; he himself was far too old to be swayed by such base desires. But young men, men whose blood still warmed at the sight of a woman’s bare flesh … Arthur thought of Ser Arys. _He was swept away by her beauty and false promises._

Yet, Arthur pitied the girl’s efforts to attract the eyes of the exiled Targaryen King for those low-cut dresses were designed and worn with him in mind. Jaehaerys could never desire Arianne, not when he still mourned for his one and only love. 

Jaehaerys had never said anything, but Arthur had raised the boy from infancy; he could see that Jaehaerys still longed for Daenerys in the small, unspoken gestures. How Jaehaerys seemed to turn inward and retreat to his private chambers when there was a summer storm, or the slight tremble of his hands when he picked up his leathered-bound, dog-eared volume of _The Songs and Tales of the Seven Kingdoms_ by Ser Martin to read each pass of the moon. Arthur even saw it when Jaehaerys climbed the lemon trees near the palace at Sunspear and sat there on the branches, watching the sunrise in silence before his sparring or history lessons, looking towards the East with sad, grey eyes.   

Arthur saw it all, and it filled him with pain and regret. It was his fault. 

He had failed to protect them. He had been sworn not only to protect Jaehaerys, but Daenerys and Viserys as well. And he had failed; it was, in some way, the biggest failure of his entire life. Arthur could not have saved Rhaegar at the Battle of the Trident, not when Rhaegar had commanded him to remain at the Tower of Joy with Lyanna. And Lyanna had not died from a sword or arrowhead, but from childbirth. _And maybe a broken heart,_ Arthur reflected _, she cried for Rhaegar and her brother, Ned that day, but neither one came for her. I was all she had that day._

But Princess Daenerys, Prince Viserys, Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold … Arthur felt the weight of those deaths on his shoulders more than the deaths of Rhaegar or Lyanna. Especially Daenerys…

Tyene sighed, reaching out to embrace Jaehaerys once more. “Well … I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, dearest brother. Bring me back a fur cloak, will you?” 

“And what are you going to do with a fur cloak in the bloody desert, you stupid?” Nymeria asked, poking Tyene sharply in the ribs. Tyene swatted her hands away with a hiss. 

But Jaehaerys chuckled, stepping between the two half-sisters before Nymeria’s fist was thrown at Tyene’s pretty face. “If that is your heart’s desire, sister, then I shall bring you back the finest fur cloak I find,” he said, then reached over and mussed Tyene’s hair much to her displeasure. 

The room was suddenly filled with the laughter of Nymeria, Obara and Arianne. Even Jaehaerys smiled faintly, and Arthur could not stop the small chuckle from escaping his lips. _Enjoy this moment,_ he told himself, _you may never see them like this again._ With Quentyn being fostered in Yronwood and Trystane being only a boy of ten-and-two, Jaehaerys’ only true companionship here in Dorne had come from the hours in the training yard with the three Sand Snakes, or on horseback with Arianne, riding across the dunes on the far eastern shores of Dorne. “Closer than a brotherhood of thieves,” Oberyn had once remarked to Arthur with a wide grin, watching the four girls and Jaehaerys climb up the tall palm trees around the Water Gardens for coconuts. Looking at them now, laughing freely, Arthur could see Oberyn had been right. Enjoy this, he told himself again, seeing the faint smile fade from Jaehaerys’ long face. _It may be some time before he smiles again._

Obara hugged Jaehaerys, then pulled back, studying him. “Don’t get killed, or worse,” she paused, smirking, her eyes bright with mischief, “… captured, little brother.” 

“Oh!” Tyene suddenly gasped, clutching at Jaehaerys’ arm. “Get captured, please? So we can come rescue you!” 

“Jon won’t get killed or captured, you fools,” Nymeria said with a laugh, glancing over at Arthur by the door. “Ser Arthur protects him.”

Arthur gave a curt bow. “I do.” 

Jaehaerys rolled his eyes, but did not deign to answer. It was an old argument, and the one argument Arthur would never allow his King to win. Wherever Jaehaerys went, Arthur followed. He would not fail the boy as he had failed all the rest of his kin. 

After another chorus of farewells and hugs, the Sand Snakes left the room with nary a sound, but the heiress of Sunspear stayed seated at the table, watching Jaehaerys with dark eyes. She’d been quiet the entire exchange.  

“So tell me, Jon … how do you intend to do it?” Arianne asked when the door closed once more. She poured another glass of Dornish wine and stood, her sandals clicking along the stone floor as she walked over and offered the new cup to Jaehaerys.  

Wordlessly Jaehaerys accepted the cup but did not drink from it. He gazed at her in confusion. “Do what exactly?” 

Arianne smirked as she inched closer to Jaehaerys. Her face was inches from his, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably from his corner in the room as he watched them. “Reclaim the North, of course? Whatever did you think I meant, Jon?”

She reached out towards his face, but Jaehaerys caught her hand before she could touch him. “I hope to rouse the northern houses against the Boltons and reclaim Winterfell for myself,” he said stiffly, his eyes never straying from Arianne’s face.  

Arthur took a heavy step forward. “It will work,” he said, reminding Arianne of his presence, “you look like a Stark.” But even as he said the words, Arthur knew to rely on Jaehaerys’ resemblance to the Starks of Winterfell would be pure folly. _The northerners are suspicious and wary of strangers. He will have to earn their allegiance with more than his name and appearance._ Somehow, Arthur found no reason to be concerned on that front. 

Arianne was quiet for a long moment. Arthur saw her large, dark eyes searching Jaehaerys’ face, but for what, he could not presume to guess. “You will not return,” she said finally, pulling away and gliding over towards the open windows once more. 

“What makes you say that, Ari?” Jaehaerys asked softly. He set his untouched cup of wine onto the table and moved after Arianne, grabbing her bare shoulders and turning her to face him. “Of course, I will return. I do not intend to lose against the Boltons.” 

Arianne shook her head, sliding out of Jaehaerys’ light embrace. “You won’t lose,” she said, her voice firm and confident. “You will reclaim the North, but you will stay in the North.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her finger running absently along the rim of her cup as she looked up at Jaehaerys. “When will you depart?”

“Tomorrow,” Jaehaerys answered without delay.

Arianne pursed her lips at his words, then turned, taking another long sip of wine, so long that when she finally set the goblet down on the table, Arthur saw that her lips were stained red. She licked them clean. “So soon?” She asked, pushing a rogue strand of dark hair away from her heart-shaped face. 

Jaehaerys nodded, his face a stone mask. “Now is the best time to leave.”

Arianne turned away from Jaehaerys, and finally looked to where Arthur stood silently near the red door. She had not acknowledged his presence since entering the room, and her sudden interest in him made Arthur shifted under her intense gaze. “You mean to go with him, my good Ser?”

“I do,” Arthur said solemnly, meeting the imploring eyes of the Princess. He heard her unspoken request, and nodded in a wordless response. _I will protect him. I swear._

Arianne desired Jaehaerys, but, underneath her lustful glances and flirtatious touches, she loved and cared for him as strongly as Arthur did. _She will never betray him or lead him astray._ Of that, Arthur knew with utmost certainty, and for that, he could try to arrange the match she desperately sought with his King. _Jaehaerys still mourns for Daenerys, but he would be wise to marry Arianne_ , Arthur thought sadly, eyeing the two royals in the room. Maybe Jaehaerys would be Arianne’s to call husband and King. Her games of seduction aside, Arianne would be an excellent match for the exiled Targaryen. 

Rhaegar had been one-and-twenty when he’d wed Elia Martell. And Jaehaerys, like Rhaegar, would not be allowed to remain unmarried forever; he would have to marry and produce an heir to secure the future of House Targaryen. _The Noble and Proud House of Targaryen must live on to see the return of the dragons. Perhaps I’ll suggest the match to Jaehaerys and Prince Doran when we returned from the North._ At the very least, he could do that for Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son. An honest match of love and mutual respect, not one borne of false promises, shame or seduction. Arthur thought of Ser Arys again, then, uncomfortably, of his own sister, Ashara. _How far the knights of the Kingsguard have fallen for love …_ Arthur felt his eyes burn, and with no rays of the sun to blame, he was forced to wipe the tears away. 

If, in that moment, Arthur had blinked or glanced in the opposite direction, he would have missed the kiss Arianne pressed unto Jaehaerys’ mouth, but he didn’t miss it; he saw and heard everything. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, and the Kingsguard heard and saw all. The tortured look on Arianne’s face when she finally pulled out of the kiss would forever burn in his mind. “Then go … Your Grace,” she whispered, tracing Jaehaerys’ lips and chin with a slender finger. 

And just like that Arianne was gone, leaving Arthur and Jaehaerys alone to the sound of children laughing in the fountains below them. The warmth in the room seemed to have fled with the future Princess of Dorne, and it showed in the young Targaryen. Jaehaerys seemed frozen like the stone dragons outside his door, staring at the empty space in front of him with a peculiar expression. Arthur could not name the expression on his King’s face, but he saw Jaehaerys lick his lips tentatively once, then twice before taking a small sip of wine from the glass Arianne had poured for him. 

Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence and taking a step towards the door. “I’ll go to the docks and make the necessary preparations for our departure. We can leave come dawn.” 

Jaehaerys simply nodded and took a sip more of wine.

With a low bow to his King, Arthur turned and left the room, shutting the door gently behind him. The stone dragons stared up at him with bright ruby eyes; it filled him with sorrow and dread. He rubbed his temples. There was a sense of finality in the air, and, not for the first time in his life, Arthur sent a prayer to the Warrior and Father to give him strength, courage, and wisdom for the long, cold months to come in the northernmost Kingdom.  

 _And now_ , Arthur thought sadly, _it begins again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three Preview:  
>  _“Can’t question something that never existed,” Bronn interrupted with a sly smile and wink, and tied the laces of his breeches. “You’re the bloody Kingslayer, not a fucking septon.” He stretched, then bent down to shove his feet into his dirty boots. “But, if we’re gonna be working together, you might as well tell me the damn truth, eh?”_


	3. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They murdered her!” Cersei yelled, leaning forward in her chair as more tears coursed down the length of her face. Jaime saw the tears land in the material of her red gown, darkening the fabric like droplets of fresh blood. Her face too was red with anger. _Or with alcohol?_ The thought unsettled Jaime. “They killed our baby girl!” She continued angrily, hurling the words like spears into his chest and piercing his heart.

King’s Landing smelt worse than he remembered.

When he had ridden through the Lion Gate that morning and entered the city, the stench had invaded every one of his senses and left him gagging. The foul odour of human waste permeated through the winding cobblestone streets and lingered in one’s nose, mouth, hair and clothes long after the city and its magnificent red walls vanished behind the rolling green hills of the lush countryside. 

Yet, despite all the indications of filth and decay, the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms always teemed with life. Any person of noble birth could take a stroll through the Street of Flour for a chance to smell the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked cakes, pastries and loaves of bread until their mouth watered and they forgot the stench. 

Fishermen and crabbers shouted out their catch of the day in the Fishmonger’s Square to potential customers, while smiths sweated and toiled away in front of their forges on the Street of Steel, filling the street with the near constant _clang_ of hammers banging on anvils. The work of renowned smiths, such as Salloreon and Tobho Mott, produced the finest weapons and armour for knights and sellswords alike across the Crownlands. 

In Coppersmith’s Lane, the coppersmiths worked day and night, fulfilling orders and crafting jewelry of the most exquisite metals for the highborn ladies of the court. Children ran barefoot through the narrow streets, kicking up mud and dirty water as they darted between the horse-drawn carriages and pushed through the crowds of people. 

It was all the goings on of a normal existence; each person living life to the fullest with their meagre belongings and finding what bit of happiness they could afford while living in the great shadow of the Red Keep. With the threat of war constantly looming over the capital like the wings of a great black dragon, the common folk of King’s Landing knew better than the highborn lords and ladies, who played the great and dangerous game, that life was a fragile flame; it could be extinguished as easily as a burning candle. 

And, as Jaime Lannister stood in the Great Sept of Baelor, staring down at the cold and pale body of his daughter, he was reminded of that harrowing, yet irrefutable fact of life: all things died. _It wasn’t her time though,_ Jaime thought, feeling the prickle of tears sting his eyes. _She should not have died._ He had never been a father to Myrcella, but somehow, to deny the truth to himself, even as she lay dead on a cold slab of granite before him, was impossible. She had and would always be his daughter. 

The Silent Sisters had been unable to wash away the traces of dried blood from the body and, even now, Myrcella’s face was hidden from the curious eyes of mourners, who came to pay their respects to their dead Princess, with a dark cloth. No funeral stones would be placed above her closed eyes. 

Upon entering the Great Sept, Jaime had commanded the High Septon to lift the fabric off his daughter’s face to show him the wounds that had killed her. Cersei had apparently seen it, and so would he. Yet the Septon’s warnings had not prepared him for the gruesome sight of what remained of Myrcella’s once lovely face: a massive chunk of flesh was missing from the right side of her face, revealing the delicate bones of her teeth, jaw and cheek where the poison had eaten the soft tissue clean away. And, if the poison had not killed her, then the horrible slash on her slender throat most assuredly had. The sight of it filled him with grief. And rage. 

 _I’m so sorry_ , Jaime thought, wanting, yet not daring to act on his sudden impulse to touch the few strands of golden hair that peaked out from under the dark cloth concealing his daughter’s ruined face _._ _I should have been there for you._ But there were no words for him to say aloud, to wash away the stain of blood still tinged in her golden locks, so he turned and left the Great Sept in complete silence. He had a meeting to attend to with a certain someone, yet he was willing to delay it for as long as he could. 

He took the longest route to the gates of the Red Keep.

During the rule of the dragonlords, the Red Keep had sparked wonder and excitement in whoever entered its magnificent halls: the skulls of fearsome dragons had decorated the red walls of the throne room while shining lights of crystal hue had filtered in through the stained-glass windows behind the throne, telling wordless, yet evocative tales of King Aegon I and his sister-wives, and their three mighty dragons. Music and laughter had filled the air and subjects of the Crown had entered freely to present their petitions and grievances to the King for recompense, judgement and advice. Though, Jaime could not say he’d ever seen a worthy man seated on the Iron Throne. He went through the line of kings in his head. … _Viserys II, Aegon IV, Daeron, II, Aerys I, Maekar I, Aegon V, Jaehaerys II…_ Jaime paused, thinking hard. _The three kings that followed Jaehaerys were a mad tyrant who raped his own wife and burned people alive, a drunken fool who whored and bankrupted the realm, and a little boy who killed kittens and tortured whores…_

Had the sickly and frail Jaehaerys really been the last decent monarch for the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros? 

It was true; King Jaehaerys, Second of His Name, had ruled for only three years before his poor health claimed him, but in those short years, that Targaryen King had proven to be a capable and effective ruler; he had ended the line of House Blackfyre and crushed their rebellions once and for all, and restored faith with the other Great Houses of Westeros in the name of peace and prosperity. But Jaehaerys had ruled almost four decades ago. And that realization baffled Jaime. How had the great bloodline of Aegon the Conqueror failed to leave a worthy successor? How had the realm survived under the rule of lesser men?

 _Perhaps it hasn’t_ , Jaime thought. 

It had been nearly two decades since the last Targaryen King, yet the air in Red Keep itself seemed to be perpetually shrouded in a cloak of despair. Jaime owed part of it to the Mad King and the other, entirely, to Robert Baratheon. _Aerys’ madness brought ruin to House Targaryen and Robert’s rage destroyed all the rest._ Robert had ordered the stained-glass windows of King Aegon and his sisters to be removed and replaced with depictions of the Seven while the dragon skulls of Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes were banished to the dungeons. But how does one replace dragon skulls with antlers and bearskins? Jaime did not know, but somehow Robert had felt justified in making those changes. _At least he didn’t smash them to dust._

Even now though, as Jaime entered, the throne room of the Red Keep was filled with throngs of people, yet bathed in an eerie silence — that cloak of despair — more befitting an ice cold crypt in the North than a Southern hall. The red and gold banners of House Baratheon and House Lannister, which usually adored the walls, had been replaced with black ones that bore no house sigil. In the centre of the room, casting horrible shadows of jagged spikes from the plain windows behind it, was the Iron Throne itself. 

And it was vacant.

For the current King of the sundered and desolated realm was surrounded by people in the centre of the room. A few members of the crowd, however, must have noticed Jaime’s arrival because they parted wordlessly to reveal the King. And King Tommen, who, Jaime noted, looked so uncomfortable, finally caught sight of him.

“You’re back,” Tommen said, his eyes widening as Jaime slowly approached him. A look of relief passed across the King’s youthful face; it reminded Jaime of the fact that the King was only ten-and-four. _He’s far too young to carry such a heavy burden._

Jaime nodded. “I am.” _For now,_ he added privately. After seeing Myrcella’s lifeless body, Jaime had a sudden desire to embrace the boy he’d never called son, but he did not act on his desire; there were hundreds of people in the throne room and he could feel their eyes on him. Instead, Jaime settled for touching the boy’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “Did you go to your sister?” 

Tommen looked as if he had swallowed something unpleasant and glanced down at the red marble floor. “I did …” he answered, his voice wavering, “… this morning with Mother and the Tyrells.”  

Jaime bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral. He should have known the Tyrells would have accompanied Cersei and Tommen to the Great Sept of Baelor. With a seat on the small council, a daughter betrothed to the King and fifty-thousand sworn swords at his command, Mace Tyrell’s power and influence in King’s Landing had only grown since Lord Tywin’s death. It was something, he knew, that irritated Cersei. “The more you give the Tyrells, the more they want _,”_ his sister had told him after the betrothal between Tommen and Margaery was formally arranged in a small council meeting after Joffrey’s death. _She was not wrong,_ Jaime thought, noticing the Tyrell broaches clipped to the doublets of more than half occupants currently in the throne room, _but Mace Tyrell won’t be satisfy until he’s Hand of the King_. 

It was not his concern though. _It is Uncle Kevan’s problem now._

“I see … how do the Tyrells fare?” Jaime asked, in a bored tone. He did not care about the Tyrells; he cared only for Cersei’s welfare. And if the Tyrells were well and happy, then Cersei most definitely was not. _They do not even give Cersei a moment of privacy to grieve._ And, if there was one thing he knew about his sister, it was that she hated showing weakness in front of others.  

Tommen shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. Lady Olenna wants to leave King’s Landing after the wedding ceremony though.” 

 _Can’t say I entirely blame her_ , Jaime thought, glancing at the crowd gathered in the throne room. For the sake of propriety, everyone gave them some space to speak in private, but Jaime knew it was a mere illusion. _They listen to our every word._

“Where is your Mother now?” Jaime asked quietly, stowing the information about the Queen of Thorns away for later. He could, at the very least, let Cersei know, if she already didn’t. “I’m meant to meet with her.” 

Tommen swallowed sharply and looked away to the crowd of people in the room. “Um… I think she’s in the Tower of the Hand.” 

Jaime gave a nod of thanks. “I best not keep her waiting,” he said. And, with that, he bowed and turned to leave the King. He didn’t get more than three steps before Tommen stopped him. 

“Uncle Jaime!” 

Jaime half-turned, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Yes, Your Grace?” _He rarely calls me uncle…_ It had been Tyrion who had won the affection of Myrcella and Tommen with inside jokes, stories of knights and dragons, and tickle sessions before bed. It had all come naturally to his little brother; to make them smile and laugh. His children had loved his little brother, and he, them. _Yet he murdered Joffrey… and our lord father._ Jaime bit his lip. He waited as patiently as he could for Tommen to speak. 

But Tommen didn’t speak for some time. Instead, the boy found the golden buckles of his leather boots of sudden and remarkable interest. And, as Jaime watched the King admire his polished boots, he suddenly realized the boy was afraid to speak. _He has no confidence. He’s the king of seven kingdoms, yet he cannot speak his mind in front of a crowded room or meet my gaze._ That realization filled him with a mixture of feelings: sorrow, bitterness, and actual fear. What king could not hold the gaze of his own kin? Jaime tried — and failed — to keep the frown from off his face. _He will be eaten alive here at court._  

“I …” Tommen began, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “…Mother …she’s …” his voice trailed off, then suddenly, he was standing so close that Jaime could spot the flecks of gold in the boy’s green eyes. The boy’s voice was a whisper when he next spoke. “She’s … drinking again.” 

 _And what do you want me to do about it?_ Jaime might have said if Joffrey stood in Tommen’s place. But the Gods were cruel, and instead of Joffrey, there was only Tommen. Young Tommen who should never have had to bear the weight of a golden crown on his head. “It’s rude to keep your Queen-to-be waiting,” he said instead, nodding in the direction of Margaery some distance away from them. 

The Tyrell girl had been waiting for some time, yet she had remained a respectful distance away. She must have felt Jaime’s gaze on her now, or perhaps been watching them, for she acknowledged Jaime with a graceful curtsy. 

Tommen followed his gaze and blushed scarlet. Not that Jaime could necessarily blame the boy for turning redder than the crimson banners of House Lannister. Even in mourning blacks, Margaery Tyrell was utterly gorgeous. With a brown mane of curling hair that fell around her shoulders in soft ringlets, the Tyrell girl could make even the most self-assured boy squirm in his seat with a sweet smile and a single glance from her doe-brown eyes, which always glinted with a hint of mischief. The black gown that she wore covered the entire length of her body — from her graceful neck down to her dainty ankles — in waves of heavy fabric embroidered with the golden rose of her noble house, but the gown was so ridiculously tight that Jaime wondered how she breathed in it at all; it revealed her slender, yet womanly figure to the entire court. 

Jaime gave the boy a small nudge in her direction. “Go to her.”

Tommen glanced back at Jaime and nodded quickly. The quick gesture made the heavy golden crown on his head slide down his forehead, and Tommen had no choice but to readjust it before he marched in the direction of Margaery. The horns of the stag crown on the boy’s head caught in the afternoon light, sparkling brightly. To a minstrel, he might have said the king looked beautiful in the golden rays of the sun, but to Jaime, the light reflecting off the crown seemed to mock the boy without his knowledge.  

 _It was meant for Joffrey_ , Jaime reflected, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration as he watched the King approach Margaery with such boyish bravado. Tommen whispered something in the girl’s ear, which made her laugh far too loudly for the hushed, almost revered stillness of the room, and then laced his arm into hers and left. As they departed, a wave of murmurs rose in the hushed room. _The crown will never suit him. Neither will the Tyrell girl. He’ll end up just like Grandfather._

Jaime swallowed the sudden rush of nausea he felt and made his way towards the Tower of the Hand with quick steps. He hated the Throne Room. _Too many memories_ , he thought without a backwards glance.  

Upon reaching the Tower of the Hand, Jaime paused and, out of habit, sniffed the air. It still smelt of shit. It had been months since Tywin’s body had been removed from the privy, yet the stench still lingered in the air. It made Jaime sick to his stomach. And he nearly turned and descended the spiralling steps of the tower to be free of the smell, but Tommen’s words stopped him. Cersei was here. And he would have to face her at some point, he knew. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Jaime opened the door and entered. 

A collection of candles burned low in the darkened room, casting long shadows that danced along the stone wall. Yet the shroud of darkness seemed unable to touch the long-haired, golden beauty seated at the oak desk at the far length of the room. If anything, the flicker of flames dancing in the darkness seemed to only enhance Cersei Lannister’s beauty and grace … and profound sorrow. 

“Where have you been?” Cersei asked, her voice clipped. 

 _Hello to you too, sweet sister._ Jaime took an uncertain step forward. He — like Cersei — was a lion of Casterly Rock, yet, as he stepped further into the room, he felt as if he was walking into the lion’s den. _Perhaps, I am_ , Jaime mused, and swallowed once before speaking. “I was busy searching for our sister-by-law,” he said evenly, glancing at the half-empty decanter by Cersei’s elbow.  

Cersei’s face darkened at the mere mention of Sansa Stark. The Stark girl had vanished after Joffrey’s death, and no one — not the gold cloaks, not the hired hunters, not even Jaime himself with all the force of House Lannister and House Tyrell behind him — had been able to locate the girl. It was as if she had never existed at all. _More likely she’s taken refuge somewhere_ , Jaime reflected, resting his arm on the pommel of his longsword. Where the Stark girl could have possibly gone though, he had not the faintest clue. 

“Why?” she asked, in a curious tone, and suddenly, after pouring herself another large goblet of wine, which she sipped before speaking, she added: “I don’t see why she is of any interest to you?” 

Jaime stared at her, his eyes widening in disbelief. “She doesn’t interest me. At all.” He took a step closer to the table, seeing, for the first time, the dark circles under his sister’s sad green eyes. His heart clenched. “And if you don’t recall … you were the one to command me to find her and bring her back to the capital for questioning.” 

Cersei turned her face away from him. But Jaime still saw her tears. “You should have been here,” she said quietly, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. “At the docks with me … when Ser Balon returned from Dorne …”

Jaime licked his lips and felt his entire body shake from the force of the breath that escaped his lungs. Had he been holding his breath? He hadn’t even realized. “Cersei…” he began quietly, and took a hesitant step forward.

“They murdered her!” Cersei yelled, leaning forward in her chair as more tears coursed down the length of her face. Jaime saw the tears land in the material of her red gown, darkening the fabric like droplets of fresh blood. Her face too was red with anger. _Or with alcohol?_ The thought unsettled Jaime. “They killed our baby girl!” She continued angrily, hurling the words like spears into his chest and piercing his heart.

He wanted to embrace her, to sweep her up in his arms and tell her everything would be okay, but when he touched her hand to do that very thing, she jerked away from his touch and glared at him with such a chilling look of anger that Jaime froze. _She blames me,_ he realized then. His outstretched hand dropped to his side. _I was the one to release Tyrion._ While Tyrion had, at least to his knowledge, nothing to do with Myrcella’s death in Dorne, their little brother had been the one to arrange Myrcella’s betrothal to Trystane Martell. _It is Tyrion’s fault that Myrcella was in Dorne. And he killed Joffrey and father … and now, perhaps Myrcella …_

His thoughts were interrupted by his sister. “What do you intend to do about it?” she demanded darkly, frowning and looking at him with a sourness that she usually reserved for Margaery Tyrell alone. 

Jaime was a maimed man, not a deaf one. He heard the challenge in her words, the subtle, yet hurtful slight at his already broken honour. But what could he do? Jaime looked at his golden hand, cursing, not for the first time, the Bloody Mummers leader, Vargo Hoat, for ordering the removal of his sword hand. _He had me maimed … but I will not let this injury be my end._ His thoughts suddenly strayed to Brienne, and he could not help but wonder: had Sansa Stark not been found because Lady Brienne had found her first? To his own surprise, he hoped that was the case. _May she keep the Stark girl safe._ Brienne of Tarth would uphold his oath to Lady Catelyn with the very steel of Lord Eddard. He glanced up at his sister’s angry and beautiful face. _I’ve made my choice._ “I’ll … destroy our enemies,” he declared loudly, clenching his left hand into a tight fist. “I’ll start with the Tullys in the Riverlands.” 

Cersei scowled at him. “Do you fear the snakes in the sand more than the trouts in the river?” she asked, her nose flaring as she took a sip of wine.

“Only a fool would not fear the Martells,” Jaime answered, and thought of Prince Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne had been a force to reckon with while in King’s Landing. _And he was only one viper,_ Jaime thought wearily. _The entirety of Dorne is a viper pit._

The wine goblet touched his sister’s lips once more. “I suppose, I shall send someone braver in your stead then,” Cersei said with a smirk.

Jaime snorted, shaking his head. “Who would be stupid enough to go to Dorne? The Dornish know their mountains and deserts better than anyone, Cersei.” _Not even Aegon the Conqueror subdued the Dornish when he united the Seven Kingdoms, and he had three fire-breathing dragons at his command,_ Jaime thought, and glanced again at his useless golden hand. _Aegon probably didn't have a stump for a sword hand either._  

“Ser Loras will go,” said Cersei, waving his words away.

Jaime gaped at her in astonishment. “You must be joking… the Tyrells will never agree to such a thing.” 

“And why ever not?” Cersei asked with a flicker of something on her face that Jaime could not rightly say was a smile. “Was it not the Red Viper who crippled his older brother? And that fat-oaf, Mace will be expected to support the Crown in avenging Myrcella if he wants to have his smirking-whore-of-a-daughter crowned as Queen. Ser Loras is sworn to obey the commands of his King. He will go to Dorne to avenge the death of Myrcella, and settle the blood feud between the Tyrells and Martells once and for all…” Cersei paused, smirking into her goblet of wine, “…or die trying.”

Jaime swallowed with some difficulty. _She may not be the drunk everyone thinks she is._ As much as he believed the Tyrells would never agree to such a proposal, there was more than an ounce of truth in his sister’s dark words. _She sounds and thinks like Father._ Jaime shifted uncomfortably at the thought. 

Ser Loras was a member of the Kingsguard. He, like Jaime, would be bound by oath and honour to follow the command of their King. _And Cersei will play into the sense of honour_ , Jaime realized. _She will mention it to Tommen_. And if the King ordered Ser Loras to assemble a host and ride to Dorne, the Knight of Flowers would have no choice but to obey his King. Jaime was not fond of the Tyrell boy, but he pitied him in that moment. _Loras will not return from Dorne. The vipers will bury the golden rose of Highgarden beneath their red sand and Mace Tyrell will be forced to leave King’s Landing to avenge Ser Loras. And Cersei will no longer be pricked by the thorns of the rose._ Jaime pressed his lips together. _Father would surely have been impressed._  

Cersei could not have known his thoughts, but she must have sensed her victory over him; she smiled at his silence, her green eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight. “Go then, Ser, do your duty. Bring peace and order to the Riverlands,” she sneered, challenging him with her eyes, “if that is your heart’s wish.” She finished the wine in her goblet and licked her lips. 

Jaime felt the phantom fingers of his missing hand itch; yet, the Lord Commander of King Tommen’s Kingsguard would not act on his building rage, not even with the hand he had left remaining to him. At least, he would not take out such anger on Cersei. Instead, Jaime bowed stiffly to his Queen and left the room, making his way down the winding staircase of the Tower of the Hand and towards the White Sword Tower with haste. 

When the news of Myrcella’s assassination had reached him, he’d called off all the hunts for the Stark girl and ridden to the capital as fast as he could. The days of hard riding were beginning to catch up with him though. He desperately needed to change. _And maybe hit someone_ , he thought distantly, grasping the hilt of his sword as he weaved his way through the narrow red corridors of the Red Keep.  

As Jaime entered the White Tower, he was greeted by the sight of four of his Sworn Brothers: Ser Osmund Kettleback, Ser Meryn Trent, Ser Balon Swann, and Ser Loras Tyrell. When a knight fastened the white clock around his shoulders, he cut all ties to his former House. _Yet each knight still wears some his house’s colours,_ Jaime thought, noticing his Sworn Brothers’ surcoats were all different, then looked down at his golden hand. _Even I_. 

Ser Loras was seated at the giant weirwood table with the White Book in hand and Ser Osmund, dressed in the winter raiment of the Kingsguard, stood behind him, pointing to something inscribed in the heavy tome. Ser Balon was pouring himself a mug of ale and Ser Meryn had his dirk out to clean his fingernails. Not a single knight acknowledged his presence upon entering, but Jaime was happy to ignore them in return. He made his way towards one of the wooden chests in the corner, hoping for, at the very least, to find a fresh tunic inside.

“Really though,” Ser Osmund was saying to Ser Loras, “Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, or Prince Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight?” 

Jaime, who was trying and failing to remove his dirty tunic, froze at the flippant mention of the legendary knights. 

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Ser Loras replied without hesitation. “The Dragonknight, at least, died protecting his king from the blades of would-be assassins.” _He died protecting a horrible, fat man who did not deserve the throne_ , Jaime thought with a grimace. _Aegon IV Targaryen is not called Aegon the Unworthy for no reason._ Jaime suddenly wondered how history would remember him. He glanced at the White Book in Loras’ hands, thinking of his scant entry written upon its white pages. _Probably not much kinder than Aegon IV._  

With a quiet sigh, Jaime tried once more to lift his soiled white tunic over his head, and nearly had it when he heard someone snigger behind him. He stopped, but did not turn around. “The lion does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheep,” his father had once said to him and Cersei, and it was those powerful words that rang in his mind now. Jaime took a deep breath and, reaching into his right boot, drew his dagger and awkwardly cut the shirt from his body. He did not look at the knights gathered around the table when he bent down to retrieve a clean tunic from the chest in the corner of the room. 

Ser Osmund cleared his throat and nudged Ser Loras in the ribs. “Why not Arthur Dayne, instead?” He asked, breaking the sudden air of tension in the small room. 

“Arthur Dayne,” began Ser Loras, flipping through the worn pages of the book with quick hands, no doubt to Arthur’s long entry, “vanished like a coward in Dorne before the Targaryens fell to ruin.” 

“Those Red Dornish Mountains are filled with so many traps from the summer war against Daemon I that even the Dornish forget where they buried them,” said Ser Balon with a loud snort. His skin looked red and sore from the few days he’d spent in the hot Dornish sun retrieving the bodies of Myrcella and Ser Arys. “Dayne probably fell to his death in some gorge while wandering the mountains at night like a fool.”  

With the exception of Jaime, every knight in the room laughed. 

And Jaime, unable to stomach their talk any longer, whirled around, half-naked with his right arm not completely in the appropriate sleeve of his fresh tunic. He knew how pathetic he looked; yet, he did not care whether they laughed or sneered at him. _Let them laugh. They can smile to my face and call me oath-breaker and Kingslayer._ But they would not, however, get away with calling Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a coward and a fool with him in the same room. “Daeron I was the Young Dragon, you fat imbecile,” Jaime snapped, glaring daggers at Ser Balon, “not Daemon. There’s never been a Targaryen King named Daemon unless you believe the dragon pretenders of House Blackfyre had a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne.” He then turned sharply to address all four men where they stood frozen in either surprise or fear at his sudden outburst. “And Ser Arthur Dayne was five times the man any one of you ignorant fools are.” _They call themselves knights, but the Seven Kingdoms have not known true knights since I killed the Mad King._

Ser Loras glared at him, then suddenly smirked, his eyes filled with horrible spite. “And what about you, _Ser_ Jaime?” He asked in such a mocking tone that Jaime nearly slapped the smug look right off the boy’s stupidly pretty face with the back of his golden hand. “What would Arthur Dayne say to _you_ if he still drew breath?” 

 _He wouldn’t have said a word to me_ , Jaime thought bitterly, thinking of his boyhood idol and one-time mentor, _Arthur would have cut me down to pieces where I stood with one hand tied behind his back. I soiled the white cloak that he, Ser Gerold, Ser Oswell, Prince Lewyn and Ser Jonathor held in such high regard._ He would not tell Loras Tyrell that though, so he did the next best thing Ser Arthur Dayne might have done in his position. He gestured to the white oak door with his golden hand. “Get out.” 

Ser Meryn stepped forward, scowling at him. “You cannot simply—”

“—I said, get out,” Jaime roared, slamming his golden hand against the wooden surface of the white table in front of him. He was tired from days of riding, frustrated with Cersei, mourning for Myrcella and angry beyond all reason; the emotions were a toxic swirl, boiling over and crashing against the floodgates of his control, and he no longer cared to restrain them. _The lion does not care for the opinion of the sheep. Let them talk. Let them laugh. They can all rot in the seven hells for all I care._ “You are all dismissed. Now … get out!”

The knights had no choice but to obey his command. He was their Lord Commander after all. 

So each knight departed in stony and sullen silence, except Ser Loras. The impetuous youth actually had the audacity to stop and glare at Jaime. And Jaime, boiling with anger, opened his mouth with the intention of telling the boy to go fuck himself raw and bloody on the hilt of his sword, but never got the chance; Ser Loras turned suddenly, his white cloak swishing at the movement, and, on his way out, slammed the door shut with such force that the decorative swords hanging on the stone wall were jostled out from their plaques. They crashed to the floor with a _clatter_ — and Jaime winced at the unholy noise. Some of those swords had once been wielded by the legendary Dragonknight himself. 

Silence filled the air. 

Jaime took a deep breath, trying to clam himself, even as his body shook with the force of his anger. He wanted nothing more than to get on his horse and ride as far away from this accursed, shit-smelling city. Nothing in King’s Landing gave him pleasure anymore. Not the song of steel ringing in the training ground, not the _squawk_ of seagulls flying above the swirling waters of Blackwater Rush, not the way the golden sun pierced the sparkling blue waves of the Narrow Sea in the early morning light. Not even Cersei. Her rejection in the Tower of the Hand had left a bitter taste in his mouth that intermingled with his anger and building resentment. 

Suddenly, uncomfortably, he found himself thinking of his little brother. _Tyrion was always the smart one._ Maybe this had been Tyrion’s plan all along: to create a wedge between him and Cersei with the deaths of Joffrey, Tywin and Myrcella. The notion was so disturbing, yet so horribly possible that Jaime nearly retched onto the floor. “A Lannister always pays his debts,” his brother had hissed to him so many moons ago in the labyrinthian of tunnels beneath the very foundation of the Red Keep. _Is this your doing, little brother? Do you torment me so for Tysha’s sake?_ Jaime could hardly breathe. He stumbled, blindly, towards the window and shoved it open. He gasped for breath. The cool wind was blowing, and with it came the smell of rain, though no water had yet fallen from the sky above. He had to leave. He could not stay here. He would _not_ stay here. _I can leave for Riverlands as early as tomorrow. I just need to assemble our forces._ Jaime paused. _I cannot do it alone, however…_

So, with a shaky breath, Jaime turned and bent down to retrieve the fallen swords from the ground. He struggled for some time to hang them all back in their rightful places, but once he had finished, he stepped back admiring them before fastening his own simple steel longsword onto his right hip and beginning the long, lonely walk down to the stables.

And within the hour, Jaime was seated atop his favourite horse and making his way down Aegon’s High Hill towards the shit-filled streets of the common folk once more. No one stopped him as he passed, yet he felt the heavy weight of their stares on his face and golden hand. He paid them no mind; he was a lion and they were all sheep. _If I was a lonely sellsword where would I go?_ Jaime thought, then nudged his horse in the direction of the Street of Silk. 

While Jaime had never sought out the company of whores, Tyrion, he knew, had often visited one of the upscale brothels in the Street of Silk. _Tyrion often brought Bronn here with him as well,_ Jaime thought as he approached Chataya’s brothel. He dismounted at the door and looked over his shoulder, making sure no one had followed him from the Red Keep. Only once he was sure no one had, did he enter the brothel. The black-skinned proprietor, who Jaime could only presume was the Madame Chataya he had heard about from Tyrion, was dressed in vibrant purple robes and white jewels, and greeted him at the door. 

“I’m looking for a sellsword,” Jaime said, flashing her his most charming smile. The same one, he knew, made Cersei weak in the knees. But he pushed the thought of Cersei from his mind.

Madame Chataya raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “There are many sellswords here, m’lord,” she said smoothly in an accent belonging to one of the Summer Isles, eyeing Jaime up and down with interest, “none in my service to offer to such a man of Lannister like yourself.” She smiled, revealing pearly white teeth. “Even your brother knew that.”  

 _Well, at least I know I’m in the right brothel._ Jaime rolled his eyes. “I’m not here for that,” he said, drawing closer to the woman as he lowered his voice. Her eyes, he suddenly noticed, seemed to sparkle like orbs of gold. _Tyrion did not exaggerate her beauty._ “Is Bronn here?” When she shook her head in a wordless response, Jaime tried again. “What about Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?” he asked, emphasizing the sellsword’s status as an anointed knight. _Not that he deserves it_ , Jaime reflected, sourly. 

A long time ago, in perhaps a better age, being a knight of the Seven Kingdoms might have meant something magical. It had, at the very least, meant something to Jaime once. The magical and heroic tales of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Duncan the Tall had captivated Jaime’s imagination as a young boy, filling his head with ideas of valour on the battlefield or crowds cheering his name as he passed atop a great white steed. But whatever childish illusion the tales had inspired in Jaime had long shattered. There were no longer honourable knights left that inspired loyalty, that captivate the hearts of sweet maidens and minds of young boys, that fought upon the battlefield not for glory, but for higher, nobler notions such as for the protection of the common folk. _There are only ignorant fools,_ Jaime thought sadly, _lusty sellswords, and oath-breakers left to claim knighthood._ He thought what Ser Arthur Dayne would have said about that. But even thinking of Arthur for too long made him feel dirty. Unworthy. 

Arthur Dayne had knighted Jaime on the same field of battle where the Kingswood Brotherhood had been defeated and their leader, the Smiling Knight, lay dead. And the young, bright-eyed boy he’d once been at five-and-ten had wanted nothing more than to be Ser Arthur Dayne — to be the next Sword of the Morning and to wield Dawn one day — but somehow, someway, in his long years of service to the Crown, he had become a pale shadow next to that honourable man.

Madame Chataya frowned. “Ser Bronn is here, m’lord, but I am unable to—”

But Jaime was no longer listening; she had told him what he wanted to hear. “I’m afraid, madam, that I’m in a bit of a rush. On the King’s errand, you see? So, if you do not mind, I’ll be going now.” Ignoring her loud protests, Jaime marched through the beaded curtain and deeper into the brothel, walking through an archway that smelled heavily of incense; it did nothing to mask the heady smell of sex.

It was in one of the back rooms that Jaime finally found the sellsword-knight being entertained by one of Madame Chataya’s girls.

“Fancy seeing you here, Kingslayer,” Bronn said with a wide smile, indicating the lavish beds of the whorehouse around him. “But, then again, I suppose they cut off your hand not your fancy cock.” 

Jaime frowned at his words. “I’m not here for that,” he repeated for the second time, growing increasingly irritated at the subtle slights to his honour. He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. _And the only woman I have ever wanted is Cersei._ Yet, even as the thought crossed his mind, Jaime remembered Cersei’s rejection. He tilted his head to one side, watching the naked girl in front of Bronn get on to her knees and stroke the material above his groin. Absently, he wondered if Cersei had ever had wanted another man. 

“No?” Bronn asked, slipping two of his fingers into the kneeling girl’s mouth. “Suck ‘em, love—there now, that’s it.” He glanced at Jaime, grinning devilishly as he used his other hand to grab the girl’s perky breast, rolling the nipple into a tight peak. The girl moaned around Bronn’s fingers and reached down to rub the spot between her slender thighs. “Odd place to come then, dontcha think? Or are you finally tryin’ to uphold them knightly vows?” Bronn laughed, then, perhaps noticing the serious expression on Jaime’s face, snorted. “Oh! For fuck’s sake man, lighten up—” 

“I just came from a meeting,” Jaime interrupted with a low snarl, growing impatient, “with the Queen.” 

Bronn’s hands fell into his lap, and the girl at his feet moaned loudly in protest at the loss of his touch. “Eh, I suppose that makes sense.” 

“What makes sense?” Jaime asked, his eyes narrowed. 

“For that fucking look on your face.” Bronn snorted, and started to unlace his breeches. The girl at his feet scooted closer. “Why … you look like you haven’t taken a decent shit in two weeks.” 

Jaime pursed his lips. _The smell of my father’s last shit still lingers in the Tower of the Hand_ , he thought darkly. He’d never known how good a shot his brother was until he’d seen the well-placed crossbow bolt in their father’s lower abdomen with his own eyes. Tyrion had shot with the intention to kill, and killed, he had. 

Bronn sighed at his silence. “Well … if you ain’t here for the sex, then what are you here for, Kingslayer?”

“I need your help,” Jaime said stiffly, leaning against the archway. 

“Open up, love” Bronn mumbled, pulling himself out of his breeches and sliding into the mouth of the girl kneeling at his feet. “Mhmm … not … gonna happen,” he groaned, threading his fingers into the girl’s long dark hair as she began to bob her head on his cock in earnest.  

“And why not?” Jaime asked, and turned away from the sellsword and girl’s bobbing head. “You don’t even know what help I require from you.”

“Whatever it is …” Bronn began, grunting loudly as he spoke, “… it can’t be good for me. Answer is no.” 

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Jaime told him, admiring the purple silk curtains hanging around the room. He shifted uncomfortable as he tried to ignore the moans and lewd slurps even as they grew louder. “A Lannister always—” 

“Don’t fucking say it!” Bronn shouted. The shout was followed by a throaty groan and a soft _thump_. 

Jaime glanced over his shoulder. 

The sellsword had fallen backwards onto the pillows piled up on the circular ottoman, breathing hard, while the girl knelt over his groin and licked him clean. When she finished, she leaned back to sit on her haunches, waiting. Bronn tossed her a silver stage. “Off ya go, love,” the sellsword said with a satisfied smirk. He playfully smacked her rump as she fled the room barefoot and naked. 

Jaime waited until her footsteps had faded away before turning back to face the sellsword. He raised an eyebrow in a wordless: _Well?_  

“You dumb Lannister cunts can’t do anything without me, can you?” said Bronn with a roll of his eyes. The sellsword shifted his weight to one side and pointed at Jaime. “I want a horse, a nice castle by that warm sea in the west, and a pretty, little, highborn wife to fuck whenever I want, do you hear me, Kingslayer?” 

 _Sellswords_ , Jaime thought with distaste, _if only I had twenty good men around me._ But, since good men were in scarce supply in King’s Landing, he would have to settle for Bronn. “You’ll get it,” he promised. _A debt is a debt, and a Lannister always pays his debts._   

The sellsword’s dark eyes, so dark they seemed nearly black, regarded Jaime for a moment, until he nodded and smiled. “Well then …” Bronn began, tucking his softening member back into his breeches and lounging against the pillows, “where are we off to?” 

Jaime licked his lips. “The Riverlands,” he replied, evenly.  

Bronn looked up from the lavish pillows beneath his head. “Why up there? Didn’t the Dornish just murder the Princess or something down in the South?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

 _Yes_ , Jaime wanted to say, but the word got caught in his throat as Myrcella’s ruined face came to his mind. He made a fist. “Cersei wants to deal with the rebellions in the Riverlands and Iron Islands before dealing with the bloody Martells,” he said, meeting the sellsword’s gaze. The lie came easy, and it might have worked well enough against one of his Sworn Brothers, but Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was first and foremost a sellsword, and would not be fooled so easily.  

Bronn stared at him, his dark eyes narrowed in suspicion, even as his mouth twitched into a knowing smile. “You’re fucking lying, ain’t you?”

There was no malice in the sellsword’s tone, yet Jaime still bristled at his words. “Are you questioning my honour—” he began, taking a step, for the first time, well and truly into the whore’s bedchamber. 

“Can’t question something that never existed,” Bronn interrupted with a sly smile and wink, and tied the laces of his breeches. “You’re the bloody Kingslayer, not a fucking septon.” He stretched, then bent down to shove his feet into his dirty boots. “But, if we’re gonna be working together, you might as well tell me the damn truth, eh?” 

Jaime’s mouth twisted into a pained expression. The truth … Did he even know it anymore? When had he started to believe in lies? Was it after he bloodied his golden sword with the tainted blood the Mad King? Or was it long before that? _Did I fall victim to one of Cersei’s lies?_ _Or was it my own pride that ruined me?_ Either way, Bronn was right; he was an oathbreaker and a murderer. Lies were expected of Kingslayers. Yet, for the second time in his life, Jaime did something not expected of Kingslayers: he forced the truth from his mouth before it fell victim to his pride. “Cersei wants to lure the Tyrells into battle with the Martells.” 

The truth seemed to shock even the sellsword; he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and staring up at Jaime with wide eyes. “And the Tyrells would be stupid enough to take that bait?” 

Jaime shrugged. “Mace Tyrell will be honour-bound to help avenge Princess Myrcella’s death if he wants to see Margaery crowned as Tommen’s queen.” 

“And why ain’t you going along to help them?” Bronn asked. The sellsword finally stood from the large cushioned ottoman and retrieved his discarded dirk and longsword from the floor. Jaime watched him strap them onto his black leather belt. “Wasn’t she your … niece?”   

The sellsword paused before he said the word _niece_ , yet his pause said everything and more to Jaime. _He knows. Was it Tyrion who told him?_ Instinctively, Jaime’s golden hand flew to his left hip — to unsheathe his sword — but found no sword hanging there to draw. 

Bronn chuckled darkly, and nodded in the direction of the sword strapped to Jaime’s right hip.  

 _The wrong hip,_ Jaime thought, bitterly, with embarrassment. Old habits, borne of instinct, died slow deaths. Before he’d lost his hand, he had always strapped his sword to his left hip, and unsheathe it across his body with his right hand; it had _felt_ right to him. Now, without his right hand, he wore his sword on his right hip, so he’d be able to draw it in similar fashion with his left hand, but the impulse to reach for his sword with his right hand — his _sword hand_ — had not faded away. It frustrated him.  

Bronn must have seen the frustration on his face, for he took a step forward, his hands spread in the air. “No need to get angry. I ain’t going to go flappin’ my mouth off to the wrong people ‘bout the Princess.” He stopped directly in front of Jaime, smirking. “But, you know … I could help with your little problem there. It’s gonna cost you somethin’ extra though,” Bronn said with a wink.  

The offer, while unexpected, was not entirely unwelcome; it gave Jaime reason to pause. He would never wield a sword as well as he had before his maiming; he had accepted that when he gave Oathkeeper to Brienne. _But to wield one well enough to fight again…_ Jaime glanced at his golden hand, then at his fleshy left hand. The thought was intoxicating. He studied the sellsword, remembering the story Tyrion had told him about Bronn. _Tyrion said he won a trial-by-combat in the Eyrie only because Bronn fought for him._ Jaime shifted his weight to his other leg. _At the very least, he might help me reclaim some of the dignity I lost._ “How much extra?” he asked wearily. 

Bronn looked thoughtful. He held his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “Seven gold dragons,” he said, then quickly added, “and tell me why we ain’t marching for Dorne.” 

Jaime raised an eyebrow; he had expected the price to be far greater. “You’ll get the gold tomorrow, as for Dorne…” he swallowed. “The Dornish will not bend to the will of the Crown,” he said quietly. 

“You certain ‘bout that?”

 _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_ , Jaime thought, but he did not dare say the Martell words aloud; to say the words would only give them strength. “Certain enough to know it’s a fool’s errand for whoever goes,” he said instead, adjusting the collar of his beige jerkin. “The Martells have never been conquered … not even by the Targaryens. Loras Tyrell will die in Dorne. And I’d much rather live another day to fight the Martells on my own terms.” 

“Eh, well, … I suppose it’s as good as time as any to be leaving this shitty city,” Bronn said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “Shall we be off then, Kingslayer?” 

Jaime nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four Preview:  
> Sansa rolled her eyes, snorting as they walked through the snowy courtyard. “Did he tell you that?” she asked. _Or did you plant the idea in his head?_ She did not know what Petyr had been telling Lord Harrold about her, and she could not help but wonder if the Lord of the Vale’s renewed interest in her had anything to do with the fact that she was no longer a bastard with the surname ‘Stone,’ but once again a Stark of Winterfell, and an unmarried women at that.


	4. Sansa

“Lord Robert’s death was a tragic accident,” Harrold the Heir was saying to the lords and ladies gathered in the High Hall of the Eyrie, “but as your new lord, I shall endeavour to protect the people of the Vale with the same courage, honour, and strength as any trueborn son of House Arryn.”

A round of applause filled the room at his words, and Sansa Stark, who stood alone on the white stone balcony overlooking the entire court, scanned the huge crowd below her, feeling a wave of nervousness rush through her at the realization that she only recognized a handful of people gathered in the impressive, austere hall of white, blue-veined marble.  

Every house sworn to House Arryn had made the long, cold journey to the top of the soaring towers of the Eyrie to swear an oath of allegiance to their new lord. The sight of banners, such as those belonging to House Royce, House Grafton, House Upcliff, and House Redford, filled Sansa with a terrible sense of foreboding, for so many lords and ladies, gathered in a single, lavish hall, could only be a prelude to one thing: war. 

 _And Petyr seemed to fear that they wouldn’t show up at all_ , Sansa thought as she counted the many knights, encased in heavy steel plate armour over chainmail and a padded arming gambeson, standing guard along the length of the great hall, with handsome, finely-crafted longswords strapped to their hips and polished heater shields, bearing the proud blue eagle of House Arryn, on their arms. 

In the days leading up to Harrold’s ascension to Lord of the Vale, Sansa had heard the laughter of highborn men and women ringing throughout antechambers, the light-hearted chatter of servants and maids rushing from room to room, emptying chamberpots, rolling oak barrels of aged wine into the kitchen, and drawing up beds, with wide smiles on their faces. The general happiness, exuded by the occupants and guests milling within the walls of the fortress, had initially surprised the displaced Stark of Winterfell. She had not heard such laughter and good cheer once in the long months that she’d been a guest in the Eyrie. 

Yet, in some small, horrible way, Sansa could understand the good cheer shared amongst nearly every soul around her.

How could one not be delighted about the powerful, handsome man who now stood poised to inherit a kingdom so often ridiculed and forgotten by the other Great Houses of Westeros, especially in the aftermath of the War of the Fives Kings? She could not — nor would she — find a reason to fault them when the lords and ladies of the Eyrie fervently believed that Harrold was Oswin the Talon reborn.  

“The Vale shall be restored to its former glory! This, my lords and ladies, I swear to you on the bones of my forefathers!” Harrold shouted, his deep voice echoing throughout the room as he finally seated himself on the weirwood throne of House Arryn for the very first time. His words were met with another loud chorus of shouts and cheers, and Sansa could only watch on in interest as the crowd formed into a line in front of the weirwood throne to swear oaths of fealty to their new lord. 

Sansa watched Lord Horton Redfort bend down to kiss the marble signet ring, bejewelled with a lapis lazuli gemstone, on Harrold’s right hand. _Only a moon ago that he was sworn to Robert,_ Sansa thought with a small frown, watching Redfort stand and move towards the back of the room. Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by the sound of movement from behind her. 

“Lady Sansa,” someone said from behind her. 

Sansa turned. 

It was Ser Edmun. Sansa had not seen the knight since her aunt Lysa’s wedding moons ago, yet she would have recognized him from across the room. Once a hedge knight, the man currently in service to Horton Redfort could not have been much older than her, but the lines on his face — whether from the sun or wind — seem to have added ten years to him. He was short with a stocky build, a crooked nose, and thick black hair that he often wore loose to frame his angular face. _If he’s handsome in any way, it’s his eyes_ , Sansa decided as she met Ser Edmun’s intense, blue-eyed gaze, _he has the most beautiful eyes_.  

“I am very sorry for your loss, my lady,” Edmun said, with a graceful bow. 

His condolences caught her off guard. With the exception of Petyr, no one seemed to have remembered (or cared, for that matter) that Lord Robert had been the sole surviving son of her maternal aunt. “I…I thank you, Ser Edmun,” Sansa replied with a small nod of gratitude.  

Ser Edmun inclined his head. “Forgive me, my lady, but curiosity compels me to ask: Lord Horton mentioned that Lord Robert died from a fall?” 

“He did,” Sansa answered, feeling a shiver climb up her spine at the memory. Robert had been small for a boy of eight, with paper-thin skin and runny eyes, yet that had not stopped Petyr from encouraging the boy to learn how to ride a horse or to swing a sword. “He needs to become a man,” Petyr had told her when she’d asked him about his sudden interest in his stepson’s education. Now, such words seemed a cruel irony, for her cousin would never become a man, instead, remaining immortalized as a sickly, boy of eight forever. 

It had happened more than a month ago, but Sansa still remembered the incident as clear as daylight: the way the fresh snow had littered the training grounds at the base of the mountain, the way little Robert’s shouts of joy had filled the air as his filly cantered about the snowy terrain at an even pace. There had been no warning, nothing at all, until his saddle had come undone. 

And with a sickening _crack_ , the white snow had been bathed with the noble blood of House Arryn. Sansa had screamed for help until her throat was raw. The memory still haunted her at night when sleep evaded her. The way her cousin’s head had been cracked open; the horror of it all had reminded her uncomfortably of Bran’s fall from the Wailing Tower nearly six years ago. _Bran was fortunate that he didn’t crack open his head,_ Sansa realized, thinking of her little brother. Not that it mattered now; Theon Greyjoy had killed Bran and Rickon, and put Winterfell to the torch years before in the North, and Sansa had never found it in her to forgive the Greyjoy her father had treated something like a son. 

“I am truly sorry, my lady,” said Ser Edmun, his baritone voice surprisingly soft. He reached into his tunic and offered her a black cloth with a white horse sewn into the silk fabric.

Sansa accepted the handkerchief with a nod of thanks, and dabbed at her wet eyes, finding the material soft against her face. “As am I, ser,” she replied, turning her attention back to the throne room.  

Ser Edmun took a step beside her and, despite the fact that she herself was at least a foot taller than the burly knight, his hand was warm when he touched the back of her own. “My lady, should you ever be in need of assistance, you need only ask.” 

The words, although unexpected, were appreciated nonetheless. Sansa turned to the knight and smiled for the first time in over a month. “Thank you, ser,” she said, sliding her fingers from his calloused, but surprisingly warm hand.  

Ser Edmun chuckled. “I had heard tales that your smile alone could warm the hearts of men, yet I see the truth of such claims before me now.” 

In spite of herself, Sansa giggled. “Is that what men speak of? My smile?” she asked, suddenly finding herself curious to what was being spoken about her by the men of the court. 

“I assure you, my lady, you have won the hearts of many far and wide,” Edmun said, presenting her with his own wide smile. It was then that she noticed the chip on his incisor tooth, and absently, she could not help wondering the story behind it. She was about to ask when, from behind her, someone called her name. 

“Sansa!” 

Sansa turned to see and, to her utmost surprise, saw Lord Harrold coming towards her. 

Dressed in the light blue and white surcoat of House Arryn, Harrold looked every inch a Lord of the Eyrie. She had often heard people claim that Harrold had the look of a younger Jon Arryn: tall, well-muscled, with broad-shoulders, sandy blonde hair, and sky blue eyes. Though she had never known what Jon Arryn had looked like in life, she thought she could see a hint of resemblance in Harrold’s blue eyes to her late cousin, Robert. 

“Lord Harrold,” said Sansa, flustered by his sudden presence on the balcony. She only just remembered to curtsy to the new Lord of the Eyrie. “How may I help you?” 

But Harrold was not looking at her. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the burly knight standing beside her. 

“Ser Edmun,” Harrold greeted stiffly, his blue eyes narrowing. “Lord Horton arrived the day before yesterday. I do not recall seeing you arrive then with the rest of his party.” 

Straightening from his bow, Edmun squared his broad shoulders and shook his head. “I did not, my lord.” 

“Well, if you are not here to swear me some oath, then what brings you here to _my_ castle so many days after the arrival of your liege-lord?” Harrold asked, his nose flaring for the briefest of moments before feigning composure. 

“I am bound by oath to obey the commands of Lord Horton, my lord,” Edmun said, seemingly unaffected by the subtle challenge, the questioning of his allegiance and honour. The short knight glanced at Sansa. “I was also simply offering my condolences to Lady Sansa here for the death of her cousin, _our_ late liege lord, Robert.” 

“And I presume you’ve offered them?” Harrold asked sharply.  

Ser Edmun said nothing for a moment, seemingly taken back by the harsh tone of the newly appointed Lord of the Eyrie, but composed himself as courtesy would demand of him. “Indeed, my lord, I have. I shall take my leave,” he said in a smooth voice. Then, with a gracious bow to Harrold, Edmun turned towards Sansa, taking her hand and pressing a feather-light kiss against her knuckles. His beautiful blue eyes stared up at her, and Sansa felt her face grow warm from the intensity of his gaze. “You have my sword, my lady.” 

Harrold had smiled when the knight first addressed him, but, by the time Ser Edmun was finished speaking, his mouth was set in an angry frown. He glared at Edmun, and took a heavy step closer to where the unarmed knight stood beside Sansa. “I assure you, Ser Edmun, Lady Sansa is without any need of _your_ sword,” he snapped, his hand gripping the hilt of his own blade so tightly that Sansa noticed his knuckles were turning ashen white.  

Ser Edmun pressed his lips together, and glanced at her. There was flicker of mirth in his blue eyes, but his face remained a slate: clear of emotions. “Of course, my lord. I meant no offence. Please excuse me.” And with one last bow in Sansa’s direction, Ser Edmun turned and descended the steps leading out from balcony to the throne room. 

Despite the joyful mood in the room, the air between Sansa and Harrold was fraught with an angry tension after Ser Edmun’s departure. And Sansa, who had never found solace in silence, shifted her weight from one foot to the other. _He can’t possibly be angry with me,_ she thought, taking a sideways glance at Harrold, _I never asked Ser Edmun for his service._ The silence was so tense that Sansa was wracking her brain for a suitable excuse to leave his stormy presence, but Harrold turned to her. 

“Forgive my anger, my lady. I had only hoped to speak with you in private,” Harrold said, bringing her hand up to his lips for a swift kiss.

 _In private?_ Sansa thought, and glanced around the room. There were hundreds of highborn men and women in the room, and each one might have more pressing concerns for the attention of Lord Harrold, yet he had sought her out — of all people — for a moment of privacy. _What could he possibly have to say to me in private?_ Sansa wondered. _Not a month ago, I was just a lowly bastard to him_.  But Lord Harrold was looking at her with such a peculiar look that it made her, despite all better judgement, unexpectedly nervous. _Oh, what do I say? What do I do? What would Petyr have me say?_ Sansa felt her mouth get suddenly dry, and she struggled, for a moment to form a coherent reply, but she was saved from replying by Lord Wyman Royce. 

“Pardon my intrusion, my lord, my lady,” Lord Royce said, soothing his interruption with a gracious bow to Harrold, then a respectful nod towards Sansa, “but there are pressing concerns that require your immediate attention.” Royce glanced in her direction, a look of apology on his face, yet also a wariness in his eyes that surprised her. “The court cannot convene for so long in such a climate and without the—”

“—I am well aware of the conditions of my own keep, Lord Royce,” Harrold interrupted, quickly. He kept his voice low, but Sansa could hear the traces of fury in his tone. It was masked under false pleasantries that she herself had been taught by Septa Mordane to wield. “A lord’s armour is forged from steel, while a lady’s armour from courtesy, pray remember that, girls,” Septa Mordane had once said to Arya and her. Her little sister had scoffed at that particular lesson, and uttered such a foul word in response that Septa Mordane had actually shrieked in terror. _She sent Arya to Mother for that_ , Sansa thought, remembering the incident as she watched Lord Harrold and Lord Royce speak with feigned disinterest, _but Arya was right_. _Men_ _wear courtesies as well as steel_. Somehow, she found that realization to be most unfair.

“We shall move the courts, as per our custom,” Harrold was saying, “to the Gates of the Moon for the duration of the winter, Lord Royce.”

That bit of information caught Sansa’s interest. _You were the one to command the court be moved back to the Eyrie for your appointment as the Lord of the Eyrie,_ she thought, looking intently at Harrold’s strong, angular face. It had been Petyr who had told her to watch men’s eyes. “A man may lie with a smile on his face, but his eyes will always tell the truth, always remember that, my dear.” 

It was now that Sansa found herself putting that lesson into practice as she scanned the depths of Harrold’s sparkling blue eyes, hoping that his thoughts would manifest somewhere to her. 

Harrold, however, suddenly glanced at her. And Sansa, half-fearing she’d been caught, flashed him what she hoped was an alluring smile. It must have worked, for Harrold returned her grin with a smirk before turning back to Lord Royce. 

“I am afraid that is not all, my lord,” Lord Royce said, glancing between Sansa and Lord Harrold with barely concealed interest. “The other lords, as well as myself, are concerned about the current state of our storehouses. With winter nearly upon us, we may not have enough food for the people of the Vale.” 

Harrold nodded and smiled nicely enough that Royce must have believed it to be sincere, yet Sansa noticed the tightening around his lips and the storm brewing in his blue eyes. _He’s getting angry_ , she realized, and tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, but his grip was firm and insistent, refusing to let her go.

“Of course, Lord Wyman.” Harrold said with a perfect white smile. “Would you be so kind as to gather the other lords for a meeting to discuss possible solutions while I finish speaking with Lady Stark here?” 

Lord Royce glanced between them, but, with a bow to them both, he turned and left without a word more. 

Harrold turned to her, sighing. “It would appear that my duty calls, my lady.” 

“So it seems, my lord,” Sansa replied.  

Harrold licked his lips before speaking once more. “I would like to come to see you later,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her knuckles in such a way that the gesture lit a flame in her lower belly. “May I, my lady?” 

Curiosity burned through her, yet Sansa pursed her lips together, resolved to play the role of a playful maiden role that Petyr had assigned to her three moons ago. “If you can find me, my lord, I shall surely keep your company.”  

Harrold grinned at her, his lips lingering on the flesh of her hand for a moment longer than courtesy demanded, then, with an assurance that he would not rest until he found her later, he disappeared in the crowd and from her sight entirely. 

Sansa was so flustered by the entire exchange that she did not notice Petyr approach her.   

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Petyr asked in a hushed tone. 

Sansa turned to him, confused. “What is?” 

A thin smile graced the features of the ex-Defender of the Vale, yet, Sansa had noticed months prior that Littlefinger’s smiles never quite reached his green eyes. “The power of chaos to achieve our heart’s desire,” he said quietly, almost to himself.   

The confusion must have been plain as day on her face, for Petyr chuckled. “Come,” he said, nudging Sansa in the direction of the door, “won’t you walk with me, my dear?” He, however, did not wait for her answer. He took hold of her arm and led her gently out the circular great hall of the Eyrie and into the snowy courtyard. 

Snow was falling from the grey sky above and the wind was frigid, almost bitterly so against the skin, yet Sansa took a deep breath, relishing the feel of cold on her face and in her lungs. _I miss Winterfell,_ she thought. Her dreams of late were often of her mother and father, of Robb, Bran, Rickon and Arya. On such days as these, she was reminded of afternoons spent huddling by the roaring fireplace with her brothers and sister while Old Nan told them silly stories of snarks, ice dragons, children of the woods and mystical beings made of ice. But it had been so long ago now, that Sansa no longer was sure it wasn’t some fragment of her imagination.   

“He’s rather smitten with you,” Petyr said quietly, breaking the silence.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Who is?” she asked with a hint of mirth as she admired the snow covering the surface of everything in the courtyard.

“Our new Lord of the Eyrie,” said Petyr, his grip on her arm seemed to tighten for the briefest of moments, but the pressure so subtle, so gentle, that Sansa thought she imagined it when he released his hold on her entirely. “He wants to marry you.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes, snorting as they walked through the snowy courtyard together. “Did he tell you that?” she asked.  _Or did you plant the idea in his head?_ She did not know what Petyr had been telling Lord Harrold about her, and she could not help but wonder if the Lord of the Eyrie’s renewed interest in her had anything to do with the fact that she was no longer a bastard with the surname ‘Stone,’ but once again a Stark of Winterfell, and an unmarried woman at that.

Petyr tugged lightly on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. The cold air around them seemed to only grow cooler as his green eyes studied her face. “My dear, beautiful Sansa, you must know that the most dangerous ideas are the ones we come up with all on our own. Once they take hold of us,” he paused, smiling up at her, “they never quite let go.” 

Sansa was quiet for some time. “Well,” she finally said, feeling suddenly lightheaded, “Lord Harrold is handsome, at least.” _Very handsome_ , she admitted to herself, thinking of Harrold’s gorgeous sea blue eyes. _He’s everything I dreamed about before I left home._

Petyr actually chuckled. “Compared to Tyrion Lannister, I imagine, yes, indeed, my sweet.” He reached up and tucked a strand of her vibrant red hair behind one of her ears. “But oftentimes, in my experience, I have found handsome men lacking one thing.” 

Despite the warning in her heart, Sansa could not stop the curiosity welling up inside her at his words. “Of what,” she prompted, waiting, yet knowing Petyr well enough that he’d tell her even without such encouragement on her part. 

“Wit.” 

 _Wit?_ Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked, feeling somewhat annoyed by his vague answer. She bent down to grab a handful of snow. The cold burned her bare flesh, yet she found some comfort in it all the same. How many times had Arya thrown a snowball into her face? _I use to hate her,_ Sansa thought, _but it would be so sweet to see her again._   

Petyr watched her. “There are three types of men in this world, Sansa, my dear: the honourable, the handsome and the clever. Honourable men are easy to anticipate; they do as duty and honour demands of them. Handsome men, like our dear Harrold, are easily swayed by nobler, more beautiful ideals, such as love, beauty and family,” Petyr said, giving her a pointed look when he’d finished.

Before, as a stupid, little girl in King’s Landing, Sansa might have pretended to not understood the meaning behind Petyr’s words, but now, as a Stark of Winterfell, in the protection of the Vale and its armies, she no longer felt the need to keep her guard up — to play the caged dove. Yet, the implications behind Petyr’s words nearly made her drop the snowball in her hands. “Lord Harrold is not in love with me, Petyr.” 

“No?” Petyr asked, seemingly surprised by her denial. “Then I must have imagined seeing the heated exchange between him and Ser Edmun mere moments ago.”   

Sansa stopped in her tracks, staring at Petyr in disbelief. “He cannot be in love with me,” she insisted more firmly, remembering the very first time she had met Lord Harrold, who, at the time, had been nothing more than “Harrold the Heir.” She had fled the meeting with tears in her eyes. _He insulted me, and mistook me for a bastard in front of everyone._

Petyr raised an eyebrow at her. “He is, at the very least, my dear, in love with the idea of being with you.” 

Sansa frowned, finding herself suddenly annoyed. “What about the clever man?” she asked instead, attempting to redirect the conversation away from Harrold entirely. She had noticed that Petyr had not continued, and that simultaneously annoyed and intrigued her. “You said there were three types of men in this world, did you not, Petyr?”   

The corner of Petyr’s mouth twitched with some emotion Sansa couldn’t rightly name. “Ah, the clever man. He is only clever if those he keeps as company are the honourable or beautiful fools, my dear.”

“That seems entirely unfair,” Sansa said, rolling the snow in her hand into a tight snowball as she let the words wash over her. “What if a beautiful man is also honourable and clever?” 

Petyr touched his pointed beard. He looked thoughtful for a long moment before shaking his head. “Tell me of such a man that exists outside a legend of fire and ice, Sansa, and I shall graciously serve such a man,” Petyr said, a playful gleam in his green eyes as he raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Well?” he prompted, waiting, smiling…

Sansa threw the snowball at him, hitting him squarely across the side of his head. “I can’t think of one that quickly,” she protested, feeling a wave of embarrassment fill her as she moved to help him dust the snow now covering his head. Although she hadn’t actually intended to hit him, she found a sudden, inexplicable desire to throw another snowball sweep through her. _I haven’t thrown a snowball in years_ , she reflected sadly, her longing for home making itself once more known to her heart. 

Petyr laughed, and for a moment, it actually sounded genuine to her ears. “Ponder on it for a year or two, my dear, and your answer shall always be the same.” He dusted the rest of the snow off the side of his head, readjusted his cloak, and smirked at her. “I fear no such man exists outside of legends of fire and ice, Sansa.” 

Sansa paused, remembering all the times her father had told her and her siblings tales of Bran the Builder, Cregan Stark, or Ser Duncan the Tall. _Bran always loved the stories of Ser Arthur Dayne_ , Sansa thought sadly, _while Robb and Arya loved the ones about Ageon the Dragon_. As a young girl, she’d always preferred the tales about beautiful maidens and gallant knights, but now, at six-and-ten, Sansa had come to learn that there was no such thing as heroes. _Perhaps Petyr is right. The only gallant heroes are the ones in songs, legends and dreams._ “I suppose,” she finally agreed with a wistful sigh, bending down to grab another fistful of snow. “If such a man existed, then any injustice would be meet with justice.” 

Petyr stared at her with watchful eyes. “Injustices such as those committed by House Bolton and House Frey onto your family?” 

Sansa felt no need reason to deny it; she simply nodded.

“But you require no hero from song or legend, Sansa. The power to reclaim the North is entirely in your grasp,” Petyr said softly, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her with interest.  

“What do you mean?”

Petyr tutted her. “My dear, you are all that remains of House Stark. The heir of Winterfell, the North … all of it belongs to you…and you alone.” 

Sansa frowned at his words. “Surely, Lord Baelish, I do not need to be the one to remind you that House Bolton is in possession of my home.” 

“And should Lord Bolton meet some unfortunate fate as Lord Tywin, who raised Roose to such a position, or, perhaps, your own dear cousin, then what, my dear?” 

Sansa stopped in her tracks. “The Boltons still have the support of the Crown and its armies.” 

Petyr raised an eyebrow, his green eyes, bright with some emotion, seemed to mock her. “But do they?” 

“What do you mean, Petyr?” Sansa asked, rolling the lump of snow in her hands into a perfectly round ball.

“I’ve just received word from King’s Landing,” Petyr said, eying the snowball in her hands with wary eyes. “Cersei Lannister has sent the Kingslayer to the Riverlands and Loras Tyrell to Dorne.” 

The mention of the Riverlands did not surprise her; she’d heard the rumours of her great-uncle still bearing the crowned direwolf banner of her brother, Robb, over the battlements of Riverrun. _But Dorne?_ Sansa frowned. “What has happened in Dorne to merit such wrath from Cersei?” she asked, half-afraid to hear the answer. 

“Princess Myrcella was assassinated.” 

Had those words come from anyone else, Sansa might have laughed at the pure absurdity of such a claim. But the words — although still unexpected and ridiculous to her ears — came from Petyr, with his own network of spies, scattered throughout every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa could only stare at him for a moment as she thought of Cersei Lannister’s only daughter. She’d been present on the docks that day when Princess Myrcella was shipped off to Dorne, and seen the many knights who had accompanied the young royal to the southernmost kingdom of Westeros, yet somehow that hadn’t been enough. “That… that is so horrible,” she finally managed to say.

Petyr inclined his head. “Indeed. The line of House Lannister grows ever thin. It shall take Ser Loras months to rally a sizeable force to take Sunspear and even longer to take the city itself. But Cersei knows, as well as I, the horrible truth of this world.” 

“And what truth is that?” Sansa asked. 

Petyr took a step towards her. “The horrible truth, my dear, is that there is no justice in this world,” he said, reaching out and taking her forearms into his hands, “unless we are the ones brave enough to make it.”

Silence filled the cold air. 

Yet, in that poignant silence, Sansa found herself thinking: _Harrold wants to marry me_. The thought would have filled her with such joy years before, yet now, after being forced to deal with Joffery and Cersei, she found herself hesitating. But Harrold… he was the Lord of the Eyrie, with two thousand mounted knights at his command, unbloodied from the War of the Five Kings…

Sansa bit her lip. 

 _I am a Stark of Winterfell,_ she thought, longing filling her breast at the thought of home. _I belong in Winterfell, I belong in the North. I am a wolf._

With as much strength as she could muster, Sansa threw the snowball in her hand. It sailed across the length of the courtyard and directly into the chest of a training dummy with a satisfying _smack_. 

She turned to Petyr. “You may tell Lord Harrold that I will marry him,” Sansa said, her chin held high as she spoke, “when he reclaims the seat of the North for me.” 

Littlefinger’s lips curled into a sinister smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Five Preview**   
>  _Stunned by the revelation, Bran glanced at Meera, hoping that she might say something - anything - to dowse his burning curiosity. Yet, Meera's red-rimmed eyes held no answers, nothing except the bewilderment that Bran himself felt as he turned back to look at the withered, white-haired man entombed in the gnarled branches of the weirwood tree. "Show me," he insisted, dragging his broken body ever closer to the roots of the white trunk. "If you speak the truth, then prove it...show him to me!"_


End file.
